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The Project Gutenberg EBook of True Stories from History and Biography by
Nathaniel Hawthorne


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Title: True Stories from History and Biography

Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne

Release Date: April 2005 [EBook #15697]

Language: American English

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<div>
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<titlePage rend="page-break-before: right">
<docTitle><titlePart type="main" rend="font-size: x-large">True Stories from History and Biography</titlePart></docTitle>
<lb /><byline>by <docAuthor>Nathaniel Hawthorne</docAuthor></byline>

<docImprint>BOSTON:<lb />
TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS.<lb />
MDCCCLI.<lb /><lb /></docImprint>

<docDate>Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the District of Massachusetts.<lb /><lb /></docDate>

<docImprint>CAMBRIDGE:<lb />
PRINTED BY BOLLES AND HOUGHTON.</docImprint>
</titlePage>


<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<p rend="text-align: center">
<figure rend="w95" url="images/image01.png"><figDesc>Frontispiece</figDesc></figure></p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: right">
<divGen type="toc" />
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: right">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Preface</head>

<p>In writing this ponderous tome, the author's desire
has been to describe the eminent characters and
remarkable events of our annals, in such a form and
style, that the YOUNG might make acquaintance with
them of their own accord. For this purpose, while
ostensibly relating the adventures of a Chair, he has
endeavored to keep a distinct and unbroken thread of
authentic history. The Chair is made to pass from
one to another of those personages, of whom he
thought it most desirable for the young reader to have
vivid and familiar ideas, and whose lives and actions
would best enable him to give picturesque sketches
of the times. On its sturdy oaken legs, it trudges diligently
from one scene to another, and seems always
to thrust itself in the way, with most benign complacency,
whenever a historical personage happens to be
looking round for a seat.</p>

<p>There is certainly no method, by which the shadowy
outlines of departed men and women can he made to
assume the hues of life more effectually, than by connecting
their images with the substantial and homely
reality of a fireside chair. It causes us to feel at
once, that these characters of history had a private
and familiar existence, and were not wholly contained
within that cold array of outward action, which we
are compelled to receive as the adequate representation
of their lives. If this impression can be given,
much is accomplished.</p>

<p>Setting aside Grandfather and his auditors, and
excepting the adventures of the Chair, which form the
machinery of the work, nothing in the ensuing pages
can be termed fictitious. The author, it is true, has
sometimes assumed the license of filling up the outline
of history with details, for which he has none but
imaginative authority, but which, he hopes, do not
violate nor give a false coloring to the truth. He
believes that, in this respect, his narrative will not be
found to convey ideas and impressions, of which the
reader may hereafter find it necessary to purge his
mind.</p>

<p>The author's great doubt is, whether he has succeeded
in writing a book which will be readable by the
class for whom he intends it. To make a lively and
entertaining narrative for children, with such unmalleable
material as is presented by the sombre, stern, and
rigid characteristics of the Puritans and their descendants,
is quite as difficult an attempt, as to manufacture
delicate playthings out of the granite rocks on which
New England is founded.</p>
</div>
</front>

<body>
<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head rend="text-align: center">THE WHOLE HISTORY OF GRANDFATHER'S CHAIR</head>

<p rend="text-align: center">COMPLETE IN THREE PARTS.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="001" />
<anchor id="Pg001" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Part I</head>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter I</head>

<p>Grandfather had been sitting in his old arm-chair,
all that pleasant afternoon, while the children
were pursuing their various sports, far off or near at
hand. Sometimes you would have said, "Grandfather
is asleep;" but still, even when his eyes were
closed, his thoughts were with the young people,
playing among the flowers and shrubbery of the garden.</p>

<p>He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken possession
of a heap of decayed branches which the gardener
had lopped from the fruit trees, and was building
a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He
heard Clara's gladsome voice, too, as she weeded
and watered the flower-bed which had been given
her for her own. He could have counted every
footstep that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow
<pb n="002" />
<anchor id="Pg002" />
along the gravel walk. And though Grandfather
was old and gray-haired, yet his heart leaped
with joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a
butterfly, into the room. She had made each of the
children her playmate in turn, and now made Grandfather
her playmate too, and thought him the merriest
of them all.</p>

<p>At last the children grew weary of their sports;
because a summer afternoon is like a long lifetime
to the young. So they came into the room together,
and clustered round Grandfather's great chair. Little
Alice, who was hardly five years old, took the
privilege of the youngest, and climbed his knee. It
was a pleasant thing to behold that fair and golden-haired
child in the lap of the old man, and to think
that, different as they were, the hearts of both could
be gladdened with the same joys.</p>

<p>"Grandfather," said little Alice, laying her head
back upon his arm, "I am very tired now. You
must tell me a story to make me go to sleep."</p>

<p>"That is not what story-tellers like," answered
Grandfather, smiling. "They are better satisfied
when they can keep their auditors awake."</p>

<p>"But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I,"
cried cousin Clara, who was twice as old as little
Alice. "We will all three keep wide awake. And
pray, Grandfather, tell us a story about this strange-looking
old chair."</p>

<p>Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made
of oak, which had grown dark with age, but had been
<pb n="003" />
<anchor id="Pg003" />
rubbed and polished till it shone as bright as mahogany.
It was very large and heavy, and had a back
that rose high above Grandfather's white head. This
back was curiously carved in open work, so as to
represent flowers and foliage and other devices;
which the children had often gazed at, but could
never understand what they meant. On the very
tiptop of the chair, over the head of Grandfather
himself, was a likeness of a lion's head, which had
such a savage grin that you would almost expect to
hear it growl and snarl.</p>

<p>The children had seen Grandfather sitting in this
chair ever since they could remember any thing.
Perhaps the younger of them supposed that he and
the chair had come into the world together, and that
both had always been as old as they were now. At
this time, however, it happened to be the fashion for
ladies to adorn their drawing-rooms with the oldest
and oddest chairs that could be found. It seemed
to cousin Clara that if these ladies could have seen
Grandfather's old chair, they would have thought it
worth all the rest together. She wondered if it were
not even older than Grandfather himself, and longed
to know all about its history.</p>

<p>"Do, Grandfather, talk to us about this chair,"
she repeated.</p>

<p>"Well, child," said Grandfather, patting Clara's
cheek, "I can tell you a great many stories of my
chair. Perhaps your cousin Laurence would like to
hear them too. They would teach him something
<pb n="004" />
<anchor id="Pg004" />
about the history and distinguished people of his
country, which he has never read in any of his
school-books."</p>

<p>Cousin Laurence was a boy of twelve, a bright
scholar, in whom an early thoughtfulness and sensibility
began to show themselves. His young fancy
kindled at the idea of knowing all the adventures of
this venerable chair. He looked eagerly in Grandfather's
face; and even Charley, a bold, brisk, restless
little fellow of nine, sat himself down on the
carpet, and resolved to be quiet for at least ten minutes,
should the story last so long.</p>

<p>Meantime, little Alice was already asleep; so
Grandfather, being much pleased with such an
attentive audience, began to talk about matters that
had happened long ago.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="005" />
<anchor id="Pg005" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter II</head>

<p>But, before relating the adventures of the chair,
Grandfather found it necessary to speak of the circumstances
that caused the first settlement of New
England. For it will soon be perceived that the
story of this remarkable chair cannot be told without
telling a great deal of the history of the country.</p>

<p>So, Grandfather talked about the Puritans, as
those persons were called who thought it sinful to
practise the religious forms and ceremonies which
the Church of England had borrowed from the
Roman Catholics. These Puritans suffered so much
persecution in England that, in 1607, many of them
went over to Holland, and lived ten or twelve years
at Amsterdam and Leyden. But they feared that,
if they continued there much longer, they should
cease to be English, and should adopt all the manners
and ideas and feelings of the Dutch. For this
and other reasons, in the year 1620, they embarked
on board of the ship Mayflower, and crossed the ocean
to the shores of Cape Cod. There they made a
settlement, and called it Plymouth; which, though
now a part of Massachusetts, was for a long time a
colony by itself. And thus was formed the earliest
settlement of the Puritans in America.</p>

<p>Meantime, those of the Puritans who remained in
<pb n="006" />
<anchor id="Pg006" />
England continued to suffer grievous persecution on
account of their religious opinions. They began to
look around them for some spot where they might
worship God, not as the king and bishops thought fit,
but according to the dictates of their own consciences.
When their brethren had gone from Holland
to America, they bethought themselves that
they likewise might find refuge from persecution
there. Several gentlemen among them purchased a
tract of country on the coast of Massachusetts Bay,
and obtained a charter from King Charles, which authorized
them to make laws for the settlers. In the
year 1628, they sent over a few people, with John
Endicott at their head, to commence a plantation at
Salem. Peter Palfrey, Roger Conant, and one or
two more, had built houses there in 1626, and may
be considered as the first settlers of that ancient
town. Many other Puritans prepared to follow Endicott.</p>

<p>"And now we come to the chair, my dear children,"
said Grandfather. "This chair is supposed to
have been made of an oak tree which grew in the
park of the English earl of Lincoln, between two and
three centuries ago. In its younger days it used,
probably, to stand in the hall of the earl's castle.
Do not you see the coat of arms of the family of
Lincoln, carved in the open work of the back? But
when his daughter, the Lady Arbella, was married
to a certain Mr. Johnson, the earl gave her this
valuable chair."
<pb n="007" />
<anchor id="Pg007" /></p>

<p>"Who was Mr. Johnson?" inquired Clara.</p>

<p>"He was a gentleman of great wealth, who agreed
with the Puritans in their religious opinions," answered
Grandfather. "And as his belief was the
same as theirs, he resolved that he would live and
die with them. Accordingly, in the month of April,
1630, he left his pleasant abode and all his comforts
in England, and embarked with the Lady Arbella,
on board of a ship bound for America."</p>

<p>As Grandfather was frequently impeded by the
questions and observations of his young auditors,
we deem it advisable to omit all such prattle as is
not essential to the story. We have taken some
pains to find out exactly what Grandfather said, and
here offer to our readers, as nearly as possible in his
own words, the story of</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE LADY ARBELLA</head>

<p>The ship in which Mr. Johnson and his lady embarked,
taking Grandfather's chair along with them,
was called the Arbella, in honor of the lady herself.
A fleet of ten or twelve vessels, with many hundred
passengers, left England about the same time; for
a multitude of people, who were discontented with
the king's government and oppressed by the bishops,
were flocking over to the new world. One of the
vessels in the fleet was that same Mayflower which
had carried the Puritan pilgrims to Plymouth. And
now, my children, I would have you fancy yourselves
in the cabin of the good ship Arbella; because if
<pb n="008" />
<anchor id="Pg008" />
you could behold the passengers aboard that vessel,
you would feel what a blessing and honor it was for
New England to have such settlers. They were the
best men and women of their day.</p>

<p>Among the passengers was John Winthrop, who
had sold the estate of his forefathers, and was going
to prepare a new home for his wife and children in
the wilderness. He had the king's charter in his
keeping, and was appointed the first Governor of
Massachusetts. Imagine him a person of grave and
benevolent aspect, dressed in a black velvet suit,
with a broad ruff around his neck and a peaked
beard upon his chin. There was likewise a minister
of the Gospel, whom the English bishops had
forbidden to preach, but who knew that he should
have liberty both to preach and pray in the forests
of America. He wore a black cloak, called a Geneva
cloak, and had a black velvet cap, fitting close
to his head, as was the fashion of almost all the
Puritan clergymen. In their company came Sir
Richard Saltonstall, who had been one of the five
first projectors of the new colony. He soon returned
to his native country. But his descendants
still remain in New England; and the good old
family name is as much respected in our days as it
was in those of Sir Richard.</p>

<p>Not only these, but several other men of wealth
and pious ministers, were in the cabin of the Arbella.
One had banished himself for ever from the old hall
where his ancestors had lived for hundreds of years.
<pb n="009" />
<anchor id="Pg009" />
Another had left his quiet parsonage, in a country
town of England. Others had come from the universities
of Oxford or Cambridge, where they had
gained great fame for their learning. And here
they all were, tossing upon the uncertain and dangerous
sea, and bound for a home that was more
dangerous than even the sea itself. In the cabin,
likewise, sat the Lady Arbella in her chair, with a
gentle and sweet expression on her face, but looking
too pale and feeble to endure the hardships of the
wilderness.</p>

<p>Every morning and evening the Lady Arbella
gave up her great chair to one of the ministers, who
took his place in it and read passages from the Bible
to his companions. And thus, with prayers and pious
conversation, and frequent singing of hymns, which
the breezes caught from their lips and scattered far
over the desolate waves, they prosecuted their voyage,
and sailed into the harbor of Salem in the
month of June.</p>

<p>At that period there were but six or eight dwellings
in the town; and these were miserable hovels,
with roofs of straw and wooden chimneys. The passengers
in the fleet either built huts with bark and
branches of trees, or erected tents of cloth till they
could provide themselves with better shelter. Many
of them went to form a settlement at Charlestown.
It was thought fit that the Lady Arbella should
tarry in Salem for a time; she was probably received
as a guest into the family of John Endicott.
<pb n="010" />
<anchor id="Pg010" />
He was the chief person in the plantation, and had
the only comfortable house which the new comers
had beheld since they left England. So now, children,
you must imagine Grandfather's chair in the
midst of a new scene.</p>

<p>Suppose it a hot summer's day, and the lattice-windows
of a chamber in Mr. Endicott's house thrown
wide open. The Lady Arbella, looking paler than
she did on shipboard, is sitting in her chair, and
thinking mournfully of far-off England. She rises
and goes to the window. There, amid patches of
garden ground and cornfield, she sees the few
wretched hovels of the settlers, with the still ruder
wigwams and cloth tents of the passengers who had
arrived in the same fleet with herself. Far and near
stretches the dismal forest of pine trees, which throw
their black shadows over the whole land, and likewise
over the heart of this poor lady.</p>

<p>All the inhabitants of the little village are busy.
One is clearing a spot on the verge of the forest for
his homestead; another is hewing the trunk of a
fallen pine tree, in order to build himself a dwelling;
a third is hoeing in his field of Indian corn. Here
comes a huntsman out of the woods, dragging a bear
which he has shot, and shouting to the neighbors to
lend him a hand. There goes a man to the sea-shore,
with a spade and a bucket, to dig a mess of
clams, which were a principal article of food with
the first settlers. Scattered here and there are two
or three dusky figures, clad in mantles of fur, with
<pb n="011" />
<anchor id="Pg011" />
ornaments of bone hanging from their ears, and the
feathers of wild birds in their coal black hair. They
have belts of shell-work slung across their shoulders,
and are armed with bows and arrows and flint-headed
spears. These are an Indian Sagamore and his
attendants, who have come to gaze at the labors of
the white men. And now rises a cry, that a pack
of wolves have seized a young calf in the pasture;
and every man snatches up his gun or pike, and runs
in chase of the marauding beasts.</p>

<p>Poor Lady Arbella watches all these sights, and
feels that this new world is fit only for rough and
hardy people. None should be here but those who
can struggle with wild beasts and wild men, and can
toil in the heat or cold, and can keep their hearts
firm against all difficulties and dangers. But she is
not one of these. Her gentle and timid spirit sinks
within her; and turning away from the window she
sits down in the great chair, and wonders thereabouts
in the wilderness her friends will dig her
grave.</p>

<p>Mr. Johnson had gone, with Governor Winthrop
and most of the other passengers, to Boston, where
he intended to build a house for Lady Arbella and
himself. Boston was then covered with wild woods,
and had fewer inhabitants even than Salem. During
her husband's absence, poor Lady Arbella felt herself
growing ill, and was hardly able to stir from the
great chair. Whenever John Endicott noticed her
despondency, he doubtless addressed her with words
<pb n="012" />
<anchor id="Pg012" />
of comfort. "Cheer up, my good lady!" he would
say. "In a little time, you will love this rude life
of the wilderness as I do." But Endicott's heart
was as bold and resolute as iron, and he could not
understand why a woman's heart should not be of
iron too.</p>

<p>Still, however, he spoke kindly to the lady, and
then hastened forth to till his corn-field and set out
fruit trees, or to bargain with the Indians for furs, or
perchance to oversee the building of a fort. Also
being a magistrate, he had often to punish some idler
or evil-doer, by ordering him to be set in the stocks
or scourged at the whipping-post. Often, too, as
was the custom of the times, he and Mr. Higginson,
the minister of Salem, held long religious talks
together. Thus John Endicott was a man of multifarious
business, and had no time to look back regretfully
to his native land. He felt himself fit for the
new world, and for the work that he had to do, and
set himself resolutely to accomplish it.</p>

<p>What a contrast, my dear children, between this
bold, rough, active man, and the gentle Lady Arbella,
who was fading away, like a pale English flower, in
the shadow of the forest! And now the great chair
was often empty, because Lady Arbella grew too
weak to arise from bed.</p>

<p>Meantime, her husband had pitched upon a spot
for their new home. He returned from Boston to
Salem, travelling through the woods on foot, and
leaning on his pilgrim's staff. His heart yearned
<pb n="013" />
<anchor id="Pg013" />
within him; for he was eager to tell his wife of the
new home which he had chosen. But when he
beheld her pale and hollow cheek, and found how
her strength was wasted, he must have known that
her appointed home was in a better land. Happy
for him then,&#8212;happy both for him and her,&#8212;if
they remembered that there was a path to heaven,
as well from this heathen wilderness as from the
Christian land whence they had come. And so, in
one short month from her arrival, the gentle Lady
Arbella faded away and died. They dug a grave
for her in the new soil, where the roots of the pine
trees impeded their spades; and when her bones
had rested there nearly two hundred years, and a
city had sprung up around them, a church of stone
was built upon the spot.</p>

<lb />

<p>Charley, almost at the commencement of the foregoing
narrative, had galloped away with a prodigious
clatter, upon Grandfather's stick, and was not yet
returned. So large a boy should have been ashamed
to ride upon a stick. But Laurence and Clara had
listened attentively, and were affected by this true
story of the gentle lady, who had come so far to die
so soon. Grandfather had supposed that little Alice
was asleep, but, towards the close of the story, happening
to look down upon her, he saw that her blue
eyes were wide open, and fixed earnestly upon his
face. The tears had gathered in them, like dew
upon a delicate flower; but when Grandfather
<pb n="014" />
<anchor id="Pg014" />
ceased to speak, the sunshine of her smile broke
forth again.</p>

<p>"O, the lady must have been so glad to get to
heaven!" exclaimed little Alice.</p>

<p>"Grandfather, what became of Mr. Johnson?"
asked Clara.</p>

<p>"His heart appears to have been quite broken,"
answered Grandfather; "for he died at Boston
within a month after the death of his wife. He was
buried in the very same tract of ground, where he
had intended to build a dwelling for Lady Arbella
and himself. Where their house would have stood
there was his grave.</p>

<p>"I never heard any thing so melancholy!" said
Clara.</p>

<p>"The people loved and respected Mr. Johnson so
much," continued Grandfather, "that it was the
last request of many of them, when they died, that
they might be buried as near as possible to this good
man's grave. And so the field became the first
burial-ground in Boston. When you pass through
Tremont street, along by King's Chapel, you see a
burial-ground, containing many old grave-stones and
monuments. That was Mr. Johnson's field."</p>

<p>"How sad is the thought," observed Clara, "that
one of the first things which the settlers had to do,
when they came to the new world, was to set apart
a burial-ground!"</p>

<p>"Perhaps," said Laurence, "if they had found
no need of burial-grounds here, they would have
<pb n="015" />
<anchor id="Pg015" />
been glad, after a few years, to go back to England."</p>

<p>Grandfather looked at Laurence, to discover
whether he knew how profound and true a thing he
had said.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<pb n="016" />
<anchor id="Pg016" />
<head>Chapter III</head>

<p>Not long after Grandfather had told the story of
his great chair, there chanced to be a rainy day.
Our friend Charley, after disturbing the household
with beat of drum and riotous shouts, races up and
down the staircase, overturning of chairs, and much
other uproar, began to feel the quiet and confinement
within doors intolerable. But as the rain came down
in a flood, the little fellow was hopelessly a prisoner,
and now stood with sullen aspect at a window, wondering
whether the sun itself were not extinguished
by so much moisture in the sky.</p>

<p>Charley had already exhausted the less eager
activity of the other children; and they had betaken
themselves to occupations that did not admit
of his companionship. Laurence sat in a recess near
the book-case, reading, not for the first time, the
Midsummer Night's Dream. Clara was making a
rosary of beads for a little figure of a Sister of
Charity, who was to attend the Bunker Hill Fair, and
lend her aid in erecting the Monument. Little Alice
sat on Grandfather's foot-stool, with a picture-book
in her hand; and, for every picture, the child was
telling Grandfather a story. She did not read from
the book, (for little Alice had not much skill in
reading,) but told the story out of her own heart
and mind.
<pb n="017" />
<anchor id="Pg017" /></p>

<p>Charley was too big a boy, of course, to care any
thing about little Alice's stories, although Grandfather
appeared to listen with a good deal of interest.
Often, in a young child's ideas and fancies, there is
something which it requires the thought of a lifetime
to comprehend. But Charley was of opinion, that
if a story must be told, it had better be told by
Grandfather, than little Alice.</p>

<p>"Grandfather, I want to hear more about your
chair," said he.</p>

<p>Now Grandfather remembered that Charley had
galloped away upon a stick, in the midst of the narrative
of poor Lady Arbella, and I know not whether
he would have thought it worth while to tell another
story, merely to gratify such an inattentive auditor
as Charley. But Laurence laid down his book and
seconded the request. Clara drew her chair nearer
to Grandfather, and little Alice immediately closed
her picture-book, and looked up into his face.
Grandfather had not the heart to disappoint them.</p>

<p>He mentioned several persons who had a share in
the settlement of our country, and who would be
well worthy of remembrance, if we could find room
to tell about them all. Among the rest, Grandfather
spoke of the famous Hugh Peters, a minister
of the gospel, who did much good to the inhabitants
of Salem. Mr. Peters afterwards went back to England,
and was chaplain to Oliver Cromwell; but
Grandfather did not tell the children what became
of this upright and zealous man, at last. In fact,
<pb n="018" />
<anchor id="Pg018" />
his auditors were growing impatient to hear more
about the history of the chair.</p>

<p>"After the death of Mr. Johnson," said he,
"Grandfather's chair came into the possession of
Roger Williams. He was a clergyman, who arrived
at Salem, and settled there in 1631. Doubtless the
good man has spent many a studious hour in this
old chair, either penning a sermon, or reading some
abstruse book of theology, till midnight came upon
him unawares. At that period, as there were few
lamps or candles to be had, people used to read or
work by the light of pitchpine torches. These supplied
the place of the "midnight oil," to the learned
men of New England."</p>

<p>Grandfather went on to talk about Roger Williams,
and told the children several particulars,
which we have not room to repeat. One incident,
however, which was connected with his life, must be
related, because it will give the reader an idea of
the opinions and feelings of the first settlers of New
England. It was as follows:</p>

<div>
<head>THE RED CROSS</head>

<p>While Roger Williams sat in Grandfather's chair,
at his humble residence in Salem, John Endicott
would often come to visit him. As the clergy had
great influence in temporal concerns, the minister
and magistrate would talk over the occurrences of
the day, and consult how the people might be governed
according to scriptural laws.
<pb n="019" />
<anchor id="Pg019" /></p>

<p>One thing especially troubled them both. In the
old national banner of England, under which her
soldiers have fought for hundreds of years, there is
a Red Cross, which has been there ever since the
days when England was in subjection to the Pope.
The Cross, though a holy symbol, was abhorred by
the Puritans, because they considered it a relic of
Popish idolatry. Now, whenever the train-band of
Salem was mustered, the soldiers, with Endicott at
their head, had no other flag to march under than
this same old papistical banner of England, with the
Red Cross in the midst of it. The banner of the
Red Cross, likewise, was flying on the walls of the
fort of Salem; and a similar one was displayed in
Boston harbor, from the fortress on Castle Island.</p>

<p>"I profess, brother Williams," Captain Endicott
would say, after they had been talking of this matter,
"it distresses a Christian man's heart, to see
this idolatrous Cross flying over our heads. A
stranger beholding it, would think that we had
undergone all our hardships and dangers, by sea
and in the wilderness, only to get new dominions for
the Pope of Rome."</p>

<p>"Truly, good Mr. Endicott," Roger Williams
would answer, "you speak as an honest man and
Protestant Christian should. For mine own part,
were it my business to draw a sword, I should reckon
it sinful to fight under such a banner. Neither
can I, in my pulpit, ask the blessing of Heaven
upon it."
<pb n="020" />
<anchor id="Pg020" /></p>

<p>Such, probably, was the way in which Roger Williams
and John Endicott used to talk about the banner
of the Red Cross. Endicott, who was a prompt
and resolute man, soon determined that Massachusetts,
if she could not have a banner of her own,
should at least be delivered from that of the Pope of
Rome.</p>

<p>Not long afterwards there was a military muster
at Salem. Every able-bodied man, in the town and
neighborhood, was there. All were well armed,
with steel caps upon their heads, plates of iron upon
their breasts and at their backs, and gorgets of steel
around their necks. When the sun shone upon
these ranks of iron-clad men, they flashed and blazed
with a splendor that bedazzled the wild Indians, who
had come out of the woods to gaze at them. The
soldiers had long pikes, swords, and muskets, which
were fired with matches, and were almost as heavy
as a small cannon.</p>

<p>These men had mostly a stern and rigid aspect.
To judge by their looks, you might have supposed
that there was as much iron in their hearts, as there
was upon their heads and breasts. They were all
devoted Puritans, and of the same temper as those
with whom Oliver Cromwell afterwards overthrew
the throne of England. They hated all the relics of
Popish superstition as much as Endicott himself;
and yet, over their heads, was displayed the banner
of the Red Cross.</p>

<p>Endicott was the captain of the company. While
<pb n="021" />
<anchor id="Pg021" />
the soldiers were expecting his orders to begin their
exercise, they saw him take the banner in one hand,
holding his drawn sword in the other. Probably he
addressed them in a speech, and explained how horrible
a thing it was, that men, who had fled from
Popish idolatry into the wilderness, should be compelled
to fight under its symbols here. Perhaps he
concluded his address somewhat in the following
style.</p>

<p>"And now, fellow soldiers, you see this old banner
of England. Some of you, I doubt not, may
think it treason for a man to lay violent hands upon
it. But whether or no it be treason to man, I have
good assurance in my conscience that it is no treason
to God. Wherefore I have resolved that we will
rather be God's soldiers, than soldiers of the Pope
of Rome; and in that mind I now cut the Papal
Cross out of this banner."</p>

<p>And so he did. And thus, in a province belonging
to the crown of England, a captain was found
bold enough to deface the King's banner with his
sword.</p>

<p>When Winthrop, and the other wise men of Massachusetts,
heard of it, they were disquieted, being
afraid that Endicott's act would bring great trouble
upon himself and them. An account of the matter
was carried to King Charles; but he was then so
much engrossed by dissensions with his people, that
he had no leisure to punish the offender. In other
<pb n="022" />
<anchor id="Pg022" />
times, it might have cost Endicott his life, and Massachusetts
her charter.</p>

<lb />

<p>"I should like to know, Grandfather," said Laurence,
when the story was ended, "whether, when
Endicott cut the Red Cross out of the banner, he
meant to imply that Massachusetts was independent
of England?"</p>

<p>"A sense of the independence of his adopted
country, must have been in that bold man's heart,"
answered Grandfather; "but I doubt whether he
had given the matter much consideration, except in
its religious bearing. However, it was a very remarkable
affair, and a very strong expression of
Puritan character."</p>

<p>Grandfather proceeded to speak further of Roger
Williams, and of other persons who sat in the great
chair, as will be seen in the following chapter.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="023" />
<anchor id="Pg023" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IV</head>

<p>"Roger Williams," said Grandfather, "did not
keep possession of the chair a great while. His
opinions of civil and religious matters differed, in
many respects, from those of the rulers and clergymen
of Massachusetts. Now the wise men of those
days believed, that the country could not be safe,
unless all the inhabitants thought and felt alike."</p>

<p>"Does any body believe so in our days Grandfather?"
asked Laurence.</p>

<p>"Possibly there are some who believe it," said
Grandfather; "but they have not so much power to
act upon their belief, as the magistrates and ministers
had, in the days of Roger Williams. They had
the power to deprive this good man of his home, and
to send him out from the midst of them, in search of
a new place of rest. He was banished in 1634, and
went first to Plymouth colony; but as the people
there held the same opinions as those of Massachusetts,
he was not suffered to remain among them.
However, the wilderness was wide enough; so Roger
Williams took his staff and travelled into the
forest, and made treaties with the Indians, and began
a plantation which he called Providence."</p>

<p>"I have been to Providence on the railroad,"
said Charley. "It is but a two hours' ride."
<pb n="024" />
<anchor id="Pg024" /></p>

<p>"Yes, Charley," replied Grandfather; "but when
Roger Williams travelled thither, over hills and valleys,
and through the tangled woods, and across
swamps and streams, it was a journey of several
days. Well; his little plantation is now grown to
be a populous city; and the inhabitants have a
great veneration for Roger Williams. His name is
familiar in the mouths of all because they see it on
their bank bills. How it would have perplexed this
good clergyman, if he had been told that he should
give his name to the ROGER WILLIAMS BANK!"</p>

<p>"When he was driven from Massachusetts," said
Laurence, "and began his journey into the woods,
he must have felt as if he were burying himself forever
from the sight and knowledge of men. Yet
the whole country has now heard of him, and will
remember him forever."</p>

<p>"Yes," answered Grandfather, "it often happens,
that the outcasts of one generation are those, who
are reverenced as the wisest and best of men by the
next. The securest fame is that which comes after
a man's death. But let us return to our story.
When Roger Williams was banished, he appears to
have given the chair to Mrs. Anne Hutchinson. At
all events it was in her possession in 1637. She
was a very sharp-witted and well-instructed lady,
and was so conscious of her own wisdom and abilities,
that she thought it a pity that the world should
not have the benefit of them. She therefore used
to hold lectures in Boston, once or twice a week, at
<pb n="025" />
<anchor id="Pg025" />
which most of the women attended. Mrs. Hutchinson
presided at these meetings, sitting, with great
state and dignity, in Grandfather's chair."</p>

<p>"Grandfather, was it positively this very chair?"
demanded Clara, laying her hand upon its carved
elbow.</p>

<p>"Why not, my dear Clara?" said Grandfather.
"Well; Mrs. Hutchinson's lectures soon caused a
great disturbance; for the ministers of Boston did
not think it safe and proper, that a woman should
publicly instruct the people in religious doctrines.
Moreover, she made the matter worse, by declaring
that the Rev. Mr. Cotton was the only sincerely pious
and holy clergyman in New England. Now the
clergy of those days had quite as much share in the
government of the country, though indirectly, as the
magistrates themselves; so you may imagine what a
host of powerful enemies were raised up against Mrs.
Hutchinson. A synod was convened; that is to say,
an assemblage of all the ministers in Massachusetts.
They declared that there were eighty-two erroneous
opinions on religious subjects, diffused among the
people, and that Mrs. Hutchinson's opinions were of
the number."</p>

<p>"If they had eighty-two wrong opinions," observed
Charley, "I don't see how they could have any
right ones."</p>

<p>"Mrs. Hutchinson had many zealous friends and
converts," continued Grandfather. "She was favored
by young Henry Vane, who had come over
<pb n="026" />
<anchor id="Pg026" />
from England a year or two before, and had since
been chosen governor of the colony, at the age of
twenty-four. But Winthrop, and most of the other
leading men, as well as the ministers, felt an abhorrence
of her doctrines. Thus two opposite parties
were formed; and so fierce were the dissensions,
that it was feared the consequence would be civil
war and bloodshed. But Winthrop and the ministers
being the most powerful, they disarmed and imprisoned
Mrs. Hutchinson's adherents. She, like
Roger Williams, was banished."</p>

<p>"Dear Grandfather, did they drive the poor woman
into the woods?" exclaimed little Alice, who
contrived to feel a human interest even in these discords
of polemic divinity.</p>

<p>"They did, my darling," replied Grandfather;
"and the end of her life was so sad, you must not
hear it. At her departure, it appears from the best
authorities, that she gave the great chair to her
friend, Henry Vane. He was a young man of wonderful
talents and great learning, who had imbibed
the religious opinions of the Puritans, and left England
with the intention of spending his life in Massachusetts.
The people chose him governor; but the
controversy about Mrs. Hutchinson, and other troubles,
caused him to leave the country in 1637. You
may read the subsequent events of his life in the
History of England."</p>

<p>"Yes, Grandfather," cried Laurence; "and we
may read them better in Mr. Upham's biography of
<pb n="027" />
<anchor id="Pg027" />
Vane. And what a beautiful death he died, long
afterwards! beautiful, though it was on a scaffold."</p>

<p>"Many of the most beautiful deaths have been
there," said Grandfather. "The enemies of a great
and good man can in no other way make him so
glorious, as by giving him the crown of martyrdom."</p>

<p>In order that the children might fully understand
the all-important history of the chair, Grandfather
now thought fit to speak of the progress that was
made in settling several colonies. The settlement
of Plymouth, in 1620, has already been mentioned.
In 1635, Mr. Hooker and Mr. Stone, two ministers,
went on foot from Massachusetts to Connecticut,
through the pathless woods, taking their whole congregation
along with them. They founded the town
of Hartford. In 1638, Mr. Davenport, a very celebrated
minister, went, with other people, and began
a plantation at New Haven. In the same year,
some persons who had been persecuted in Massachusetts,
went to the Isle of Rhodes, since called Rhode
Island, and settled there. About this time, also,
many settlers had gone to Maine, and were living
without any regular government. There were likewise
settlers near Piscataqua River, in the region
which is now called New Hampshire.</p>

<p>Thus, at various points along the coast of New
England, there were communities of Englishmen.
Though these communities were independent of one
another, yet they had a common dependence upon
<pb n="028" />
<anchor id="Pg028" />
England; and, at so vast a distance from their native
home, the inhabitants must all have felt like
brethren. They were fitted to become one united
people, at a future period. Perhaps their feelings
of brotherhood were the stronger, because different
nations had formed settlements to the north and to
the south. In Canada and Nova Scotia were colonies
of French. On the banks of the Hudson River
was a colony of Dutch, who had taken possession of
that region many years before, and called it New
Netherlands.</p>

<p>Grandfather, for aught I know, might have gone
on to speak of Maryland and Virginia; for the good
old gentleman really seemed to suppose, that the
whole surface of the United States was not too broad
a foundation to place the four legs of his chair upon.
But, happening to glance at Charley, he perceived
that this naughty boy was growing impatient, and
meditating another ride upon a stick. So here, for
the present, Grandfather suspended the history of
his chair.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="029" />
<anchor id="Pg029" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" /><head>Chapter V</head>

<p>The Children had now learned to look upon the
chair with an interest, which was almost the same as
if it were a conscious being, and could remember the
many famous people whom it had held within its
arms.</p>

<p>Even Charley, lawless as he was, seemed to feel
that this venerable chair must not be clambered upon
nor overturned, although he had no scruple in taking
such liberties with every other chair in the house.
Clara treated it with still greater reverence, often
taking occasion to smooth its cushion, and to brush
the dust from the carved flowers and grotesque
figures of its oaken back and arms. Laurence
would sometimes sit a whole hour, especially at twilight,
gazing at the chair, and, by the spell of his
imaginations, summoning up its ancient occupants to
appear in it again.</p>

<p>Little Alice evidently employed herself in a similar
way; for once, when Grandfather had gone
abroad, the child was heard talking with the gentle
Lady Arbella, as if she were still sitting in the
chair. So sweet a child as little Alice may fitly
talk with angels, such as the Lady Arbella had long
since become.</p>

<p>Grandfather was soon importuned for more stories
<pb n="030" />
<anchor id="Pg030" />
about the chair. He had no difficulty in relating
them; for it really seemed as if every person, noted
in our early history, had, on some occasion or other,
found repose within its comfortable arms. If Grandfather
took pride in any thing, it was in being the
possessor of such an honorable and historic elbow
chair.</p>

<p>"I know not precisely who next got possession of
the chair, after Governor Vane went back to England,"
said Grandfather. "But there is reason to
believe that President Dunster sat in it, when he
held the first commencement at Harvard College.
You have often heard, children, how careful our
forefathers were, to give their young people a good
education. They had scarcely cut down trees
enough to make room for their own dwellings, before
they began to think of establishing a college. Their
principal object was, to rear up pious and learned
ministers; and hence old writers call Harvard College
a school of the prophets."</p>

<p>"Is the college a school of the prophets now?"
asked Charley.</p>

<p>"It is a long while since I took my degree, Charley.
You must ask some of the recent graduates,"
answered Grandfather. "As I was telling you,
President Dunster sat in Grandfather's chair in
1642, when he conferred the degree of bachelor of
arts on nine young men. They were the first in
America, who had received that honor. And now,
my dear auditors, I must confess that there are contradictory
<pb n="031" />
<anchor id="Pg031" />
statements and some uncertainty about
the adventures of the chair, for a period of almost
ten years. Some say that it was occupied by your
own ancestor, William Hawthorne, first Speaker of
the House of Representatives. I have nearly satisfied
myself, however, that, during most of this questionable
period, it was literally the Chair of State.
It gives me much pleasure to imagine, that several
successive governors of Massachusetts sat in it at
the council board."</p>

<p>"But, Grandfather," interposed Charley, who
was a matter-of-fact little person, "what reason
have you to imagine so?"</p>

<p>"Pray do imagine it, Grandfather," said Laurence.</p>

<p>"With Charley's permission, I will," replied
Grandfather, smiling. "Let us consider it settled,
therefore, that Winthrop, Bellingham, Dudley, and
Endicott, each of them, when chosen governor, took
his seat in our great chair on election day. In this
chair, likewise, did those excellent governors preside,
while holding consultations with the chief counsellors
of the province, who were styled Assistants.
The governor sat in this chair, too, whenever messages
were brought to him from the chamber of Representatives."</p>

<p>And here Grandfather took occasion to talk,
rather tediously, about the nature and forms of
government that established themselves, almost spontaneously,
in Massachusetts and the other New England
<pb n="032" />
<anchor id="Pg032" />
colonies. Democracies were the natural growth
of the new world. As to Massachusetts, it was at
first intended that the colony should be governed by
a council in London. But, in a little while, the
people had the whole power in their own hands, and
chose annually the governor, the counsellors, and
the representatives. The people of old England
had never enjoyed any thing like the liberties and
privileges, which the settlers of New England now
possessed. And they did not adopt these modes of
government after long study, but in simplicity, as if
there were no other way for people to be ruled.</p>

<p>"But, Laurence," continued Grandfather, "when
you want instruction on these points, you must seek
it in Mr. Bancroft's History. I am merely telling
the history of a chair. To proceed. The period
during which the governors sat in our chair, was not
very full of striking incidents. The province was
now established on a secure foundation; but it did
not increase so rapidly as at first, because the Puritans
were no longer driven from England by persecution.
However, there was still a quiet and natural
growth. The legislature incorporated towns, and
made new purchases of lands from the Indians. A
very memorable event took place in 1643. The
colonies of Massachusetts, Plymouth, Connecticut,
and New Haven, formed a union, for the purpose of
assisting each other in difficulties, and for mutual
defence against their enemies. They called themselves
the United Colonies of New England."</p>

<pb n="033" />
<anchor id="Pg033" />

<p>"Were they under a government like that of
the United States?" inquired Laurence.</p>

<p>"No," replied Grandfather, "the different colonies
did not compose one nation together; it was
merely a confederacy among the governments. It
somewhat resembled the league of the Amphictyons,
which you remember in Grecian history. But to
return to our chair. In 1644 it was highly honored;
for Governor Endicott sat in it, when he gave audience
to an ambassador from the French governor of
Acadie, or Nova Scotia. A treaty of peace, between
Massachusetts and the French colony, was
then signed."</p>

<p>"Did England allow Massachusetts to make war
and peace with foreign countries?" asked Laurence.</p>

<p>"Massachusetts, and the whole of New England,
was then almost independent of the mother country,"
said Grandfather. "There was now a civil
war in England; and the king, as you may well
suppose, had his hands full at home, and could pay
but little attention to these remote colonies. When
the Parliament got the power into their hands, they
likewise had enough to do in keeping down the
Cavaliers. Thus New England, like a young and
hardy lad, whose father and mother neglect it, was
left to take care of itself. In 1649, King Charles
was beheaded. Oliver Cromwell then became Protector
of England; and as he was a Puritan himself,
and had risen by the valor of the English Puritans,
<pb n="034" />
<anchor id="Pg034" />
he showed himself a loving and indulgent father to
the Puritan colonies in America."</p>

<p>Grandfather might have continued to talk in this
dull manner, nobody knows how long; but, suspecting
that Charley would find the subject rather dry,
he looked sideways at that vivacious little fellow,
and saw him give an involuntary yawn. Whereupon,
Grandfather proceeded with the history of
the chair, and related a very entertaining incident,
which will be found in the next chapter.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="035" />
<anchor id="Pg035" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VI</head>

<p>"According to the most authentic records, my
dear children," said Grandfather, "the chair, about
this time, had the misfortune to break its leg. It
was probably on account of this accident, that it
ceased to be the seat of the governors of Massachusetts;
for, assuredly, it would have been ominous of
evil to the commonwealth, if the Chair of State had
tottered upon three legs. Being therefore sold at
auction,&#8212;alas! what a vicissitude for a chair that
had figured in such high company, our venerable
friend was knocked down to a certain Captain John
Hull. This old gentleman, on carefully examining
the maimed chair, discovered that its broken leg
might be clamped with iron and made as serviceable
as ever."</p>

<p>"Here is the very leg that was broken!" exclaimed
Charley, throwing himself down on the floor
to look at it. "And here are the iron clamps.
How well it was mended!"</p>

<p>When they had all sufficiently examined the broken
leg, Grandfather told them a story about Captain
John Hull and</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS</head>

<p>The Captain John Hull, aforesaid, was the mint-master
of Massachusetts, and coined all the money
<pb n="036" />
<anchor id="Pg036" />
that was made there. This was a new line of business:
for, in the earlier days of the colony, the current
coinage consisted of gold and silver money of
England, Portugal, and Spain. These coins being
scarce, the people were often forced to barter their
commodities, instead of selling them.</p>

<p>For instance, if a man wanted to buy a coat, he
perhaps exchanged a bear-skin for it. If he wished
for a barrel of molasses, he might purchase it with a
pile of pine boards. Musket-bullets were used instead
of farthings. The Indians had a sort of
money, called wampum, which was made of clam-shells;
and this strange sort of specie was likewise
taken in payment of debts, by the English settlers.
Bank-bills had never been heard of. There was
not money enough of any kind, in many parts of
the country, to pay the salaries of the ministers; so
that they sometimes had to take quintals of fish,
bushels of corn, or cords of wood, instead of silver
or gold.</p>

<p>As the people grew more numerous, and their
trade one with another increased, the want of current
money was still more sensibly felt. To supply
the demand, the general court passed a law for
establishing a coinage of shillings, sixpences, and
threepences. Captain John Hull was appointed to
manufacture this money, and was to have about one
shilling out of every twenty to pay him for the
trouble of making them.</p>

<p>Hereupon, all the old silver in the colony was
handed over to Captain John Hull. The battered
<pb n="037" />
<anchor id="Pg037" />
silver cans and tankards, I suppose, and silver
buckles, and broken spoons, and silver buttons of
worn-out coats, and silver hilts of swords that had
figured at court, all such curious old articles were
doubtless thrown into the melting-pot together. But
by far the greater part of the silver consisted of
bullion from the mines of South America, which the
English buccaniers&#8212;(who were little better than
pirates)&#8212;had taken from the Spaniards, and
brought to Massachusetts.</p>

<p>All this old and new silver being melted down
and coined, the result was an immense amount of
splendid shillings, sixpences, and threepences.
Each had the date, 1652, on the one side, and the
figure of a pine-tree on the other. Hence they
were called pine-tree shillings. And for every
twenty shillings that he coined, you will remember,
Captain John Hull was entitled to put one shilling
into his own pocket.</p>

<p>The magistrates soon began to suspect that the
mint-master would have the best of the bargain.
They offered him a large sum of money, if he would
but give up that twentieth shilling, which he was
continually dropping into his own pocket. But
Captain Hull declared himself perfectly satisfied
with the shilling. And well he might be; for so
diligently did he labor, that, in a few years, his
pockets, his money bags, and his strong box, were
overflowing with pine-tree shillings. This was probably
the case when he came into possession of
Grandfather's chair; and, as he had worked so hard
<pb n="038" />
<anchor id="Pg038" />
at the mint, it was certainly proper that he should
have a comfortable chair to rest himself in.</p>

<p>When the mint-master had grown very rich, a
young man, Samuel Sewell by name, came a courting
to his only daughter. His daughter,&#8212;whose
name I do not know, but we will call her Betsey,&#8212;was
a fine hearty damsel, by no means so slender as
some young ladies of our own days. On the contrary,
having always fed heartily on pumpkin pies,
doughnuts, Indian puddings, and other Puritan
dainties, she was as round and plump as a pudding
herself. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, did
Samuel Sewell fall in love. As he was a young
man of good character, industrious in his business,
and a member of the church, the mint-master very
readily gave his consent.</p>

<p>"Yes&#8212;you may take her," said he, in his rough
way; "and you'll find her a heavy burden enough!"</p>

<p>On the wedding day, we may suppose that honest
John Hull dressed himself in a plum-colored coat,
all the buttons of which were made of pine-tree
shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were sixpences;
and the knees of his smallclothes were
buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired, he
sat with great dignity in Grandfather's chair; and,
being a portly old gentleman, he completely filled it
from elbow to elbow. On the opposite side of the
room, between her bride-maids, sat Miss Betsey.
She was blushing with all her might, and looked like
a full blown p&#230;ony, or a great red apple.</p>

<p>There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine
<pb n="039" />
<anchor id="Pg039" />
purple coat, and gold lace waistcoat, with as much
other finery as the Puritan laws and customs would
allow him to put on. His hair was cropped close to
his head, because Governor Endicott had forbidden
any man to wear it below the ears. But he was a
very personable young man; and so thought the
bride-maids and Miss Betsey herself.</p>

<p>The mint-master also was pleased with his new
son-in-law; especially as he had courted Miss Betsey
out of pure love, and had said nothing at all about
her portion. So when the marriage ceremony was
over, Captain Hull whispered a word to two of his
men-servants, who immediately went out, and soon
returned, lugging in a large pair of scales. They
were such a pair as wholesale merchants use, for
weighing bulky commodities; and quite a bulky
commodity was now to be weighed in them.</p>

<p>"Daughter Betsey," said the mint-master, "get
into one side of these scales."</p>

<p>Miss Betsey,&#8212;or Mrs. Sewell, as we must now
call her,&#8212;did as she was bid, like a dutiful child,
without any question of the why and wherefore.
But what her father could mean, unless to make her
husband pay for her by the pound, (in which case
she would have been a dear bargain,) she had not
the least idea.</p>

<p>"And now," said honest John Hull to the servants,
"bring that box hither."</p>

<p>The box, to which the mint-master pointed, was a
huge, square, iron bound, oaken chest; it was big
<pb n="040" />
<anchor id="Pg040" />
enough, my children, for all four of you to play at
hide-and-seek in. The servants tugged with might
and main, but could not lift this enormous receptacle,
and were finally obliged to drag it across the
floor. Captain Hull then took a key from his girdle,
unlocked the chest, and lifted its ponderous lid.
Behold! it was full to the brim of bright pine-tree
shillings, fresh from the mint; and Samuel Sewell
began to think that his father-in-law had got possession
of all the money in the Massachusetts treasury.
But it was only the mint-master's honest share of
the coinage.</p>

<p>Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command,
heaped double handfulls of shillings into one side of
the scales, while Betsey remained in the other.
Jingle, jingle, went the shillings, as handful after
handful was thrown in, till, plump and ponderous as
she was, they fairly weighed the young lady from
the floor.</p>

<p>"There, son Sewell!" cried the honest mint-master,
resuming his seat in Grandfather's chair.
"Take these shillings for my daughter's portion.
Use her kindly, and thank Heaven for her. It is
not every wife that's worth her weight in silver!"</p>

<lb />

<p>The children laughed heartily at this legend, and
would hardly be convinced but that Grandfather had
made it out of his own head. He assured them
faithfully, however, that he had found it in the
<pb n="041" />
<anchor id="Pg041" />
pages of a grave historian, and had merely tried
to tell it in a somewhat funnier style. As for
Samuel Sewell, he afterwards became Chief Justice
of Massachusetts.</p>

<p>"Well, Grandfather," remarked Clara, "if wedding
portions now-a-days were paid as Miss Betsey's
was, young ladies would not pride themselves upon
an airy figure as many of them do."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="042" />
<anchor id="Pg042" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VII</head>

<p>When his little audience next assembled round
the chair, Grandfather gave them a doleful history
of the Quaker persecution, which began in 1656,
and raged for about three years in Massachusetts.</p>

<p>He told them how, in the first place, twelve of
the converts of George Fox, the first Quaker in the
world, had come over from England. They seemed
to be impelled by an earnest love for the souls of
men, and a pure desire to make known what they
considered a revelation from Heaven. But the
rulers looked upon them as plotting the downfall of
all government and religion. They were banished
from the colony. In a little while, however, not
only the first twelve had returned, but a multitude
of other Quakers had come to rebuke the rulers,
and to preach against the priests and steeple-houses.</p>

<p>Grandfather described the hatred and scorn with
which these enthusiasts were received. They were
thrown into dungeons; they were beaten with many
stripes, women as well as men; they were driven
forth into the wilderness, and left to the tender mercies
of wild beasts and Indians. The children were
amazed to hear, that, the more the Quakers were
scourged, and imprisoned, and banished, the more
did the sect increase, both by the influx of strangers,
<pb n="043" />
<anchor id="Pg043" />
and by converts from among the Puritans. But
Grandfather told them, that God had put something
into the soul of man, which always turned the cruelties
of the persecutor to nought.</p>

<p>He went on to relate, that, in 1659, two Quakers,
named William Robinson and Marmaduke Stephenson,
were hanged at Boston. A woman had been
sentenced to die with them, but was reprieved, on
condition of her leaving the colony. Her name was
Mary Dyer. In the year 1660 she returned to
Boston, although she knew death awaited her there;
and, if Grandfather had been correctly informed, an
incident had then taken place, which connects her
with our story. This Mary Dyer had entered the
mint-master's dwelling, clothed in sackcloth and
ashes, and seated herself in our great chair, with a
sort of dignity and state. Then she proceeded to
deliver what she called a message from Heaven;
but in the midst of it, they dragged her to prison.</p>

<p>"And was she executed?" asked Laurence.</p>

<p>"She was," said Grandfather.</p>

<p>"Grandfather," cried Charley, clenching his fist,
"I would have fought for that poor Quaker woman!"</p>

<p>"Ah! but if a sword had been drawn for her,"
said Laurence, "it would have taken away all the
beauty of her death."</p>

<p>It seemed as if hardly any of the preceding stories
had thrown such an interest around Grandfather's
chair, as did the fact, that the poor, persecuted,
wandering Quaker woman had rested in it for
<pb n="044" />
<anchor id="Pg044" />
a moment. The children were so much excited,
that Grandfather found it necessary to bring his
account of the persecution to a close.</p>

<p>"In 1660, the same year in which Mary Dyer
was executed," said he, "Charles the Second was
restored to the throne of his fathers. This king had
many vices; but he would not permit blood to be
shed, under pretence of religion, in any part of his
dominions. The Quakers in England told him what
had been done to their brethren in Massachusetts;
and he sent orders to Governor Endicott to forbear
all such proceedings in future. And so ended the
Quaker persecution,&#8212;one of the most mournful
passages in the history of our forefathers."</p>

<p>Grandfather then told his auditors, that, shortly
after the above incident, the great chair had been
given by the mint-master to the Rev. Mr. John Eliot.
He was the first minister of Roxbury. But besides
attending to his pastoral duties there, he learned the
language of the red men, and often went into the
woods to preach to them. So earnestly did he labor
for their conversion, that he has always been called
the apostle to the Indians. The mention of this
holy man suggested to Grandfather the propriety of
giving a brief sketch of the history of the Indians,
so far as they were connected with the English colonists.</p>

<p>A short period before the arrival of the first Pilgrims
at Plymouth, there had been a very grievous
plague among the red men; and the sages and ministers
<pb n="045" />
<anchor id="Pg045" />
of that day were inclined to the opinion, that
Providence had sent this mortality, in order to make
room for the settlement of the English. But I know
not why we should suppose that an Indian's life is
less precious, in the eye of Heaven, than that of a
white man. Be that as it may, death had certainly
been very busy with the savage tribes.</p>

<p>In many places the English found the wigwams
deserted, and the corn-fields growing to waste, with
none to harvest the grain. There were heaps of
earth also, which, being dug open, proved to be
Indian graves, containing bows and flint-headed
spears and arrows; for the Indians buried the dead
warrior's weapons along with him. In some spots,
there were skulls and other human bones, lying unburied.
In 1633, and the year afterwards, the
smallpox broke out among the Massachusetts Indians,
multitudes of whom died by this terrible disease of
the old world. These misfortunes made them far
less powerful than they had formerly been.</p>

<p>For nearly half a century after the arrival of the
English, the red men showed themselves generally
inclined to peace and amity. They often made
submission, when they might have made successful
war. The Plymouth settlers, led by the famous
Captain Miles Standish, slew some of them in 1623,
without any very evident necessity for so doing. In
1636, and the following year, there was the most
dreadful war that had yet occurred between the Indians
and the English. The Connecticut settlers,
<pb n="046" />
<anchor id="Pg046" />
assisted by a celebrated Indian chief, named Uncas,
bore the brunt of this war, with but little aid from
Massachusetts. Many hundreds of the hostile Indians
were slain, or burnt in their wigwams. Sassacus,
their sachem, fled to another tribe, after his
own people were defeated; but he was murdered
by them, and his head was sent to his English enemies.</p>

<p>From that period, down to the time of King
Philip's war, which will be mentioned hereafter,
there was not much trouble with the Indians. But
the colonists were always on their guard, and kept
their weapons ready for the conflict.</p>

<p>"I have sometimes doubted," said Grandfather,
when he had told these things to the children, "I
have sometimes doubted whether there was more
than a single man, among our forefathers, who realized
that an Indian possesses a mind and a heart,
and an immortal soul. That single man was John
Eliot. All the rest of the early settlers seemed to
think that the Indians were an inferior race of beings,
whom the Creator had merely allowed to keep
possession of this beautiful country, till the white
men should be in want of it.</p>

<p>"Did the pious men of those days never try to
make Christians of them?" asked Laurence.</p>

<p>"Sometimes, it is true," answered Grandfather,
"the magistrates and ministers would talk about
civilizing and converting the red people. But, at
the bottom of their hearts, they would have had
<pb n="047" />
<anchor id="Pg047" />
almost as much expectation of civilizing a wild bear
of the woods, and making him fit for paradise.
They felt no faith in the success of any such attempts,
because they had no love for the poor Indians. Now
Eliot was full of love for them, and therefore so full
of faith and hope, that he spent the labor of a lifetime
in their behalf."</p>

<p>"I would have conquered them first, and then
converted them," said Charley.</p>

<p>"Ah, Charley, there spoke the very spirit of our
forefathers!" replied Grandfather. "But Mr.
Eliot had a better spirit. He looked upon them as
his brethren. He persuaded as many of them as
he could, to leave off their idle and wandering habits,
and to build houses, and cultivate the earth, as the
English did. He established schools among them,
and taught many of the Indians how to read. He
taught them, likewise, how to pray. Hence they
were called 'praying Indians.' Finally, having
spent the best years of his life for their good, Mr.
Eliot resolved to spend the remainder in doing them
a yet greater benefit."</p>

<p>"I know what that was!" cried Laurence.</p>

<p>"He sat down in his study," continued Grandfather,
"and began a translation of the Bible into
the Indian tongue. It was while he was engaged
in this pious work, that the mint-master gave him
our great chair. His toil needed it, and deserved
it."</p>

<p>"O, Grandfather, tell us all about that Indian
<pb n="048" />
<anchor id="Pg048" />
Bible!" exclaimed Laurence. "I have seen it in
the library of the Athen&#230;um; and the tears came
into my eyes, to think that there were no Indians
left to read it."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="049" />
<anchor id="Pg049" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VIII</head>

<p>As Grandfather was a great admirer of the Apostle
Eliot, he was glad to comply with the earnest request
which Laurence had made, at the close of the
last chapter. So he proceeded to describe how good
Mr. Eliot labored, while he was at work upon</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE INDIAN BIBLE</head>

<p>My dear children, what a task would you think it,
even with a long lifetime before you, were you bidden
to copy every chapter and verse, and word, in
yonder great family Bible! Would not this be a
heavy toil? But if the task were, not to write off
the English Bible, but to learn a language, utterly
unlike all other tongues,&#8212;a language which hitherto
had never been learned, except by the Indians
themselves, from their mothers' lips,&#8212;a language
never written, and the strange words of which
seemed inexpressible by letters;&#8212;if the task were,
first, to learn this new variety of speech, and then
to translate the Bible into it, and to do it so carefully,
that not one idea throughout the holy book
should be changed,&#8212;what would induce you to
undertake this toil? Yet this was what the Apostle
Eliot did.</p>

<p>It was a mighty work for a man, now growing old,
<pb n="050" />
<anchor id="Pg050" />
to take upon himself. And what earthly reward
could he expect from it? None; no reward on
earth. But he believed that the red men were the
descendants of those lost tribes of Israel of whom
history has been able to tell us nothing, for thousands
of years. He hoped that God had sent the
English across the ocean, Gentiles as they were, to
enlighten this benighted portion of his once chosen
race. And when he should be summoned hence, he
trusted to meet blessed spirits in another world,
whose bliss would have been earned by his patient
toil, in translating the Word of God. This hope
and trust were far dearer to him, than any thing
that earth could offer.</p>

<p>Sometimes, while thus at work, he was visited by
learned men, who desired to know what literary undertaking
Mr. Elliot had in hand. They, like himself,
had been bred in the studious cloisters of a university,
and were supposed to possess all the erudition
which mankind has hoarded up from age to age.
Greek and Latin were as familiar to them as the
babble of their childhood. Hebrew was like their
mother tongue. They had grown gray in study;
their eyes were bleared with poring over print and
manuscript by the light of the midnight lamp.</p>

<p>And yet, how much had they left unlearned!
Mr. Eliot would put into their hands some of the
pages, which he had been writing; and behold! the
gray-headed men stammered over the long, strange
words, like a little child in his first attempts to read.
<pb n="051" />
<anchor id="Pg051" />
Then would the apostle call to him an Indian boy,
one of his scholars, and show him the manuscript,
which had so puzzled the learned Englishmen.</p>

<p>"Read this, my child," said he, "these are some
brethren of mine, who would fain hear the sound of
thy native tongue."</p>

<p>Then would the Indian boy cast his eyes over the
mysterious page, and read it so skilfully, that it
sounded like wild music. It seemed as if the forest
leaves were singing in the ears of his auditors, and
as if the roar of distant streams were poured through
the young Indian's voice. Such were the sounds
amid which the language of the red man had been
formed; and they were still heard to echo in it.</p>

<p>The lesson being over, Mr. Eliot would give the
Indian boy an apple or a cake, and bid him leap forth
into the open air, which his free nature loved. The
apostle was kind to children, and even shared in
their sports, sometimes. And when his visitors had
bidden him farewell, the good man turned patiently
to his toil again.</p>

<p>No other Englishman had ever understood the
Indian character so well, nor possessed so great an
influence over the New England tribes, as the apostle
did. His advice and assistance must often have
been valuable to his countrymen, in their transactions
with the Indians. Occasionally, perhaps, the governor
and some of the counsellors came to visit Mr.
Eliot. Perchance they were seeking some method
to circumvent the forest people. They inquired, it
<pb n="052" />
<anchor id="Pg052" />
may be, how they could obtain possession of such and
such a tract of their rich land. Or they talked of
making the Indians their servants, as if God had
destined them for perpetual bondage to the more
powerful white man.</p>

<p>Perhaps, too, some warlike captain, dressed in his
buff-coat, with a corslet beneath it, accompanied the
governor and counsellors. Laying his hand upon
his sword hilt, he would declare, that the only
method of dealing with the red men was to meet
them with the sword drawn, and the musket presented.</p>

<p>But the apostle resisted both the craft of the politician,
and the fierceness of the warrior.</p>

<p>"Treat these sons of the forest as men and brethren,"
he would say, "and let us endeavor to make
them Christians. Their forefathers were of that
chosen race, whom God delivered from Egyptian
bondage. Perchance he has destined us to deliver
the children from the more cruel bondage of ignorance
and idolatry. Chiefly for this end, it may be,
we were directed across the ocean."</p>

<p>When these other visitors were gone, Mr. Eliot
bent himself again over the half written page. He
dared hardly relax a moment from his toil. He felt
that, in the book which he was translating, there
was a deep human, as well as heavenly wisdom,
which would of itself suffice to civilize and refine the
savage tribes. Let the Bible be diffused among
them, and all earthly good would follow. But how
<pb n="053" />
<anchor id="Pg053" />
slight a consideration was this, when he reflected
that the eternal welfare of a whole race of men depended
upon his accomplishment of the task which
he had set himself! What if his hands should be
palsied? What if his mind should lose its vigor?
What if death should come upon him, ere the work
were done? Then must the red man wander in the
dark wilderness of heathenism for ever.</p>

<p>Impelled by such thoughts as these, he sat writing
in the great chair, when the pleasant summer breeze
came in through his open casement; and also when
the fire of forest logs sent up its blaze and smoke,
through the broad stone chimney, into the wintry
air. Before the earliest bird sang, in the morning,
the apostle's lamp was kindled; and, at midnight,
his weary head was not yet upon its pillow. And at
length, leaning back in the great chair, he could say
to himself, with a holy triumph,&#8212;"The work is
finished!"</p>

<p>It was finished. Here was a Bible for the Indians.
Those long lost descendants of the ten tribes of
Israel would now learn the history of their forefathers.
That grace, which the ancient Israelites had
forfeited, was offered anew to their children.</p>

<p>There is no impiety in believing that, when his
long life was over, the apostle of the Indians was
welcomed to the celestial abodes by the prophets of
ancient days, and by those earliest apostles and evangelists,
who had drawn their inspiration from the
immediate presence of the Saviour. They first had
<pb n="054" />
<anchor id="Pg054" />
preached truth and salvation to the world. And
Eliot, separated from them by many centuries, yet
full of the same spirit, had borne the like message
to the new world of the West. Since the first days
of Christianity, there has been no man more worthy
to be numbered in the brotherhood of the apostles,
than Eliot.</p>

<lb />

<p>"My heart is not satisfied to think," observed
Laurence, "that Mr. Eliot's labors have done no
good, except to a few Indians of his own time.
Doubtless, he would not have regretted his toil, if it
were the means of saving but a single soul. But it
is a grievous thing to me, that he should have toiled
so hard to translate the Bible, and now the language
and the people are gone! The Indian Bible itself is
almost the only relic of both."</p>

<p>"Laurence," said his Grandfather, "if ever you
should doubt that man is capable of disinterested
zeal for his brother's good, then remember how the
apostle Eliot toiled. And if you should feel your
own self-interest pressing upon your heart too closely,
then think of Eliot's Indian Bible. It is good for
the world that such a man has lived, and left this
emblem of his life."</p>

<p>The tears gushed into the eyes of Laurence, and
he acknowledged that Eliot had not toiled in vain.
Little Alice put up her arms to Grandfather, and
<pb n="055" />
<anchor id="Pg055" />
drew down his white head beside her own golden
locks.</p>

<p>"Grandfather," whispered she, "I want to kiss
good Mr. Eliot!"</p>

<p>And, doubtless, good Mr. Eliot would gladly
receive the kiss of so sweet a child as little Alice,
and would think it a portion of his reward in heaven.</p>

<p>Grandfather now observed, that Dr. Francis had
written a very beautiful Life of Eliot, which he
advised Laurence to peruse. He then spoke of
King Philip's war, which began in 1675, and terminated
with the death of King Philip, in the following
year. Philip was a proud, fierce Indian, whom
Mr. Eliot had vainly endeavored to convert to the
Christian faith.</p>

<p>"It must have been a great anguish to the apostle,"
continued Grandfather, "to hear of mutual
slaughter and outrage between his own countrymen,
and those for whom he felt the affection of a father.
A few of the praying Indians joined the followers of
King Philip. A greater number fought on the side
of the English. In the course of the war, the little
community of red people whom Mr. Eliot had begun
to civilize, was scattered, and probably never was
restored to a flourishing condition. But his zeal did
not grow cold; and only about five years before his
death he took great pains in preparing a new edition
of the Indian Bible."</p>

<p>"I do wish Grandfather," cried Charley, "you
would tell us all about the battles in King Philip's
war."</p>

<pb n="056" />
<anchor id="Pg056" />

<p>"O, no!" exclaimed Clara. "Who wants to
hear about tomahawks and scalping knives!"</p>

<p>"No, Charley," replied Grandfather, "I have no
time to spare in talking about battles. You must
be content with knowing that it was the bloodiest war
that the Indians had ever waged against the white
men; and that, at its close, the English set King
Philip's head upon a pole."</p>

<p>"Who was the captain of the English?" asked
Charley.</p>

<p>"Their most noted captain was Benjamin Church,&#8212;a
very famous warrior," said Grandfather. "But
I assure you, Charley, that neither Captain Church,
nor any of the officers and soldiers who fought in
King Philip's war, did any thing a thousandth part
so glorious, as Mr. Eliot did, when he translated the
Bible for the Indians."</p>

<p>"Let Laurence be the apostle," said Charley to
himself, "and I will be the captain."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="057" />
<anchor id="Pg057" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IX</head>

<p>The children were now accustomed to assemble
round Grandfather's chair, at all their unoccupied moments;
and often it was a striking picture to behold
the white-headed old sire, with this flowery wreath
of young people around him. When he talked to
them, it was the past speaking to the present,&#8212;or
rather to the future, for the children were of a generation
which had not become actual. Their part in
life, thus far, was only to be happy, and to draw
knowledge from a thousand sources. As yet, it was
not their time to do.</p>

<p>Sometimes, as Grandfather gazed at their fair,
unworldly countenances, a mist of tears bedimmed
his spectacles. He almost regretted that it was
necessary for them to know any thing of the past,
or to provide aught for the future. He could have
wished that they might be always the happy, youthful
creatures, who had hitherto sported around his
chair, without inquiring whether it had a history.
It grieved him to think that his little Alice, who
was a flower-bud fresh from paradise, must open her
leaves to the rough breezes of the world, or ever
open them in any clime. So sweet a child she was,
that it seemed fit her infancy should be immortal!</p>

<p>But such repinings were merely flitting shadows
<pb n="058" />
<anchor id="Pg058" />
across the old man's heart. He had faith enough to
believe, and wisdom enough to know, that the bloom
of the flower would be even holier and happier than
its bud. Even within himself,&#8212;though Grandfather
was now at that period of life, when the veil
of mortality is apt to hang heavily over the soul,&#8212;still,
in his inmost being, he was conscious of something
that he would not have exchanged for the best
happiness of childhood. It was a bliss to which
every sort of earthly experience,&#8212;all that he had
enjoyed or suffered, or seen, or heard, or acted, with
the broodings of his soul upon the whole,&#8212;had
contributed somewhat. In the same manner must a
bliss, of which now they could have no conception,
grow up within these children, and form a part of
their sustenance for immortality.</p>

<p>So Grandfather, with renewed cheerfulness, continued
his history of the chair, trusting that a profounder
wisdom than his own would extract, from
these flowers and weeds of Time, a fragrance that
might last beyond all time.</p>

<p>At this period of the story, Grandfather threw a
glance backward, as far as the year 1660. He
spoke of the ill-concealed reluctance with which the
Puritans in America had acknowledged the sway of
Charles the Second, on his restoration to his father's
throne. When death had stricken Oliver Cromwell,
that mighty protector had no sincerer mourners than
in New England. The new king had been more
than a year upon the throne before his accession
<pb n="059" />
<anchor id="Pg059" />
was proclaimed in Boston; although the neglect to
perform the ceremony might have subjected the
rulers to the charge of treason.</p>

<p>During the reign of Charles the Second, however,
the American colonies had but little reason to complain
of harsh or tyrannical treatment. But when
Charles died, in 1685, and was succeeded by his
brother James, the patriarchs of New England
began to tremble. King James was a bigoted
Roman Catholic, and was known to be of an arbitrary
temper. It was feared by all Protestants,
and chiefly by the Puritians, that he would assume
despotic power, and attempt to establish Popery
throughout his dominions. Our forefathers felt that
they had no security either for their religion or their
liberties.</p>

<p>The result proved that they had reason for their
apprehensions. King James caused the charters of
all the American colonies to be taken away. The
old charter of Massachusetts, which the people
regarded as a holy thing, and as the foundation of
all their liberties, was declared void. The colonists
were now no longer freemen; they were entirely
dependent on the king's pleasure. At first, in
1685, King James appointed Joseph Dudley, a
native of Massachusetts, to be president of New
England. But soon afterwards, Sir Edmund Andros,
an officer of the English army, arrived, with a
commission to be governor-general of New England
and New York.</p>

<pb n="060" />
<anchor id="Pg060" />

<p>The king had given such powers to Sir Edmund
Andros, that there was now no liberty, nor scarcely
any law, in the colonies over which he ruled. The
inhabitants were not allowed to choose representatives,
and consequently had no voice whatever in
the government, nor control over the measures that
were adopted. The counsellors, with whom the governor
consulted on matters of state, were appointed
by himself. This sort of government was no better
than an absolute despotism.</p>

<p>"The people suffered much wrong, while Sir Edmund
Andros ruled over them," continued Grandfather,
"and they were apprehensive of much more.
He had brought some soldiers with him from England,
who took possession of the old fortress on Castle
Island, and of the fortification on Fort Hill.
Sometimes it was rumored that a general massacre
of the inhabitants was to be perpetrated by these
soldiers. There were reports, too, that all the ministers
were to be slain or imprisoned."</p>

<p>"For what?" inquired Charley.</p>

<p>"Because they were the leaders of the people,
Charley," said Grandfather. "A minister was a
more formidable man than a general, in those days.
Well; while these things were going on in America,
King James had so misgoverned the people of England,
that they sent over to Holland for the Prince
of Orange. He had married the king's daughter,
and was therefore considered to have a claim to the
crown. On his arrival in England, the Prince of
<pb n="061" />
<anchor id="Pg061" />
Orange was proclaimed king, by the name of William
the Third. Poor old King James made his
escape to France."</p>

<p>Grandfather told how, at the first intelligence of
the landing of the Prince of Orange in England,
the people of Massachusetts rose in their strength,
and overthrew the government of Sir Edmund
Andros. He, with Joseph Dudley, Edmund Randolph,
and his other principal adherents, were thrown
into prison. Old Simon Bradstreet, who had been
governor, when King James took away the charter,
was called by the people to govern them again.</p>

<p>"Governor Bradstreet was a venerable old man,
nearly ninety years of age," said Grandfather.
"He came over with the first settlers, and had been
the intimate companion of all those excellent and
famous men who laid the foundation of our country.
They were all gone before him to the grave; and
Bradstreet was the last of the Puritans."</p>

<p>Grandfather paused a moment, and smiled, as if
he had something very interesting to tell his auditors.
He then proceeded:</p>

<p>"And now, Laurence,&#8212;now, Clara,&#8212;now,
Charley,&#8212;now, my dear little Alice,&#8212;what chair
do you think had been placed in the council chamber,
for old Governor Bradstreet to take his seat
in? Would you believe that it was this very chair
in which grandfather now sits, and of which he is
telling you the history?"</p>

<p>"I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" cried
<pb n="062" />
<anchor id="Pg062" />
Charley, after a shout of delight. "I thought
Grandfather had quite forgotten the chair."</p>

<p>"It was a solemn and affecting sight," said
Grandfather, "when this venerable patriarch, with
his white beard flowing down upon his breast, took
his seat in his Chair of State. Within his remembrance,
and even since his mature age, the site
where now stood the populous town, had been a wild
and forest-covered peninsula. The province, now
so fertile, and spotted with thriving villages, had
been a desert wilderness. He was surrounded by
a shouting multitude, most of whom had been born
in the country which he had helped to found. They
were of one generation, and he of another. As the
old man looked upon them, and beheld new faces
everywhere, he must have felt that it was now time
for him to go, whither his brethren had gone before
him."</p>

<p>"Were the former governors all dead and gone?"
asked Laurence.</p>

<p>"All of them," replied Grandfather. "Winthrop
had been dead forty years. Endicott died, a
very old man, in 1665. Sir Henry Vane was beheaded
in London, at the beginning of the reign of
Charles the Second. And Haynes, Dudley, Bellingham
and Leverett, who had all been governors of
Massachusetts, were now likewise in their graves.
Old Simon Bradstreet was the sole representative of
that departed brotherhood. There was no other
public man remaining to connect the ancient system
<pb n="063" />
<anchor id="Pg063" />
of government and manners with the new system,
which was about to take its place. The era of the
Puritans was now completed."</p>

<p>"I am sorry for it," observed Laurence; "for,
though they were so stern, yet it seems to me that
there was something warm and real about them. I
think, Grandfather, that each of these old governors
should have his statue set up in our State House,
sculptured out of the hardest of New England
granite."</p>

<p>"It would not be amiss, Laurence," said Grandfather;
"but perhaps clay, or some other perishable
material, might suffice for some of their successors.
But let us go back to our chair. It was occupied by
Governor Bradstreet from April, 1689, until May,
1692. Sir William Phips then arrived in Boston,
with a new charter from King William, and a commission
to be governor."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="064" />
<anchor id="Pg064" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter X</head>

<p>"And what became of the chair," inquired
Clara.</p>

<p>"The outward aspect of our chair," replied Grandfather,
"was now somewhat the worse for its long
and arduous services. It was considered hardly
magnificent enough to be allowed to keep its place
in the council chamber of Massachusetts. In fact,
it was banished as an article of useless lumber.
But Sir William Phips happened to see it and being
much pleased with its construction, resolved to take
the good old chair into his private mansion. Accordingly,
with his own gubernatorial hands, he
repaired one of its arms, which had been slightly
damaged".</p>

<p>"Why, Grandfather, here is the very arm!"
interrupted Charley, in great wonderment. "And
did Sir William Phips put in these screws with his
own hands? I am sure, he did it beautifully! But
how came a governor to know how to mend a chair?"</p>

<p>"I will tell you a story about the early life of Sir
William Phips," said Grandfather. "You will then
perceive, that he well knew how to use his hands."</p>

<p>So Grandfather related the wonderful and true
tale of</p>

<div>
<pb n="065" />
<anchor id="Pg065" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE SUNKEN TREASURE</head>

<p>Picture to yourselves, my dear children, a handsome,
old-fashioned room, with a large, open cupboard
at one end, in which is displayed a magnificent
gold cup, with some other splendid articles of gold
and silver plate. In another part of the room, opposite
to a tall looking-glass, stands our beloved
chair, newly polished, and adorned with a gorgeous
cushion of crimson velvet tufted with gold.</p>

<p>In the chair sits a man of strong and sturdy
frame, whose face has been roughened by northern
tempests, and blackened by the burning sun of the
West Indies. He wears an immense periwig, flowing
down over his shoulders. His coat has a wide
embroidery of golden foliage; and his waistcoat,
likewise, is all flowered over and bedizened with
gold. His red, rough hands, which have done many
a good day's work with the hammer and adze, are
half covered by the delicate lace ruffles at his wrists.
On a table lies his silver-hilted sword, and in a
corner of the room stands his gold-headed cane,
made of a beautifully polished West Indian wood.</p>

<p>Somewhat such an aspect as this, did Sir William
Phips present, when he sat in Grandfather's chair,
after the king had appointed him governor of Massachusetts.
Truly, there was need that the old
chair should be varnished, and decorated with a
<pb n="066" />
<anchor id="Pg066" />
crimson cushion, in order to make it suitable for such
a magnificent looking personage.</p>

<p>But Sir William Phips had not always worn a
gold embroidered coat, nor always sat so much at
his ease as he did in Grandfather's chair. He was
a poor man's son, and was born in the province of
Maine, where he used to tend sheep upon the hills,
in his boyhood and youth. Until he had grown to
be a man, he did not even know how to read and
write. Tired of tending sheep, he next apprenticed
himself to a ship-carpenter, and spent about four
years in hewing the crooked limbs of oak trees into
knees for vessels.</p>

<p>In 1673, when he was twenty-two years old, he
came to Boston, and soon afterwards was married to
a widow lady, who had property enough to set him
up in business. It was not long, however, before he
lost all the money that he had acquired by his marriage,
and became a poor man again. Still, he was
not discouraged. He often told his wife that, some
time or other, he should be very rich, and would
build a "fair brick house" in the Green Lane of
Boston.</p>

<p>Do not suppose, children, that he had been to a
fortune-teller to inquire his destiny. It was his own
energy and spirit of enterprise, and his resolution to
lead an industrious life, that made him look forward
with so much confidence to better days.</p>

<p>Several years passed away; and William Phips
<pb n="067" />
<anchor id="Pg067" />
had not yet gained the riches which he promised to
himself. During this time he had begun to follow
the sea for a living. In the year 1684, he happened
to hear of a Spanish ship, which had been cast away
near the Bahama Islands, and which was supposed
to contain a great deal of gold and silver. Phips
went to the place in a small vessel, hoping that he
should be able to recover some of the treasure from
the wreck. He did not succeed, however, in fishing
up gold and silver enough to pay the expenses of his
voyage.</p>

<p>But, before he returned, he was told of another
Spanish ship or galleon, which had been cast away
near Porto de la Plata. She had now lain as much
as fifty years beneath the waves. This old ship had
been laden with immense wealth; and, hitherto,
nobody had thought of the possibility of recovering
any part of it from the deep sea, which was rolling
and tossing it about. But though it was now an old
story, and the most aged people had almost forgotten
that such a vessel had been wrecked. William
Phips resolved that the sunken treasure should again
be brought to light.</p>

<p>He went to London, and obtained admittance to
King James, who had not yet been driven from his
throne. He told the king of the vast wealth that
was lying at the bottom of the sea. King James
listened with attention, and thought this a fine opportunity
to fill his treasury with Spanish gold. He
appointed William Phips to be captain of a vessel,
<pb n="068" />
<anchor id="Pg068" />
called the Rose Algier, carrying eighteen guns and
ninety-five men. So now he was Captain Phips of
the English navy.</p>

<p>Captain Phips sailed from England in the Rose
Algier, and cruised for nearly two years in the
West Indies, endeavoring to find the wreck of the
Spanish ship. But the sea is so wide and deep, that
it is no easy matter to discover the exact spot where
a sunken vessel lies. The prospect of success
seemed very small; and most people would have
thought that Captain Phips was as far from having
money enough to build a "fair brick house," as he
was while he tended sheep.</p>

<p>The seamen of the Rose Algier became discouraged,
and gave up all hope of making their fortunes
by discovering the Spanish wreck. They wanted to
compel Captain Phips to turn pirate. There was a
much better prospect, they thought, of growing rich
by plundering vessels, which still sailed the sea, than
by seeking for a ship that had lain beneath the waves
full half a century. They broke out in open mutiny,
but were finally mastered by Phips, and compelled
to obey his orders. It would have been dangerous,
however, to continue much longer at sea
with such a crew of mutinous sailors; and, besides,
the Rose Algier was leaky and unseaworthy. So
Captain Phips judged it best to return to England.</p>

<p>Before leaving the West Indies, he met with a
Spaniard, an old man, who remembered the wreck
of the Spanish ship, and gave him directions how to
<pb n="069" />
<anchor id="Pg069" />
find the very spot. It was on a reef of rocks a few
leagues from Porto de la Plata.</p>

<p>On his arrival in England, therefore, Captain Phips
solicited the king to let him have another vessel, and
send him back again to the West Indies. But King
James, who had probably expected that the Rose
Algier would return laden with gold, refused to have
any thing more to do with the affair. Phips might
never have been able to renew the search, if the
Duke of Albemarle, and some other noblemen had
not lent their assistance. They fitted out a ship
and gave the command to Captain Phips. He
sailed from England, and arrived safely at Porto de
la Plata, where he took an adze and assisted his
men to build a large boat.</p>

<p>The boat was intended for the purpose of going
closer to the reef of rocks than a large vessel could
safely venture. When it was finished, the Captain
sent several men in it, to examine the spot where
the Spanish ship was said to have been wrecked.
They were accompanied by some Indians, who were
skilful divers, and could go down a great way into
the depths of the sea.</p>

<p>The boat's crew proceeded to the reef of rocks,
and rowed round and round it, a great many times.
They gazed down into the water, which was so transparent
that it seemed as if they could have seen the
gold and silver at the bottom, had there been any of
those precious metals there. Nothing, however,
could they see; nothing more valuable than a curious
<pb n="070" />
<anchor id="Pg070" />
sea shrub, which was growing beneath the water,
in a crevice of the reef of rocks. It flaunted to
and fro with the swell and reflux of the waves, and
looked as bright and beautiful as if its leaves were
gold.</p>

<p>"We won't go back empty-handed," cried an
English sailor; and then he spoke to one of the
Indian divers. "Dive down and bring me that
pretty sea shrub there. That's the only treasure
we shall find!"</p>

<p>Down plunged the diver, and soon rose dripping
from the water, holding the sea shrub in his hand.
But he had learnt some news at the bottom of the
sea.</p>

<p>"There are some ship's guns," said he, the moment
he had drawn breath, "some great cannon
among the rocks, near where the shrub was growing."</p>

<p>No sooner had he spoken, than the English sailors
knew that they had found the very spot where
the Spanish galleon had been wrecked so many
years before. The other Indian divers immediately
plunged over the boat's side, and swam headlong
down, groping among the rocks and sunken cannon.
In a few moments one of them rose above the water,
with a heavy lump of silver in his arms. That single
lump was worth more than a thousand dollars.
The sailors took it into the boat, and then rowed
back as speedily as they could, being in haste to
inform Captain Phips of their good luck.
<pb n="071" />
<anchor id="Pg071" /></p>

<p>But, confidently as the Captain had hoped to find
the Spanish wreck, yet now that it was really found,
the news seemed too good to be true. He could
not believe it till the sailors showed him the lump of
silver.</p>

<p>"Thanks be to God!" then cries Captain Phips.
"We shall every man of us make our fortunes!"</p>

<p>Hereupon the Captain and all the crew set to
work, with iron rakes and great hooks and lines, fishing
for gold and silver at the bottom of the sea.
Up came the treasure in abundance. Now they
beheld a table of solid silver, once the property of
an old Spanish Grandee. Now they found a sacramental
vessel, which had been destined as a gift to
some Catholic church. Now they drew up a golden
cup, fit for the king of Spain to drink his wine out of.
Perhaps the bony hand of its former owner had been
grasping the precious cup, and was drawn up along
with it. Now their rakes or fishing lines were loaded
with masses of silver bullion. There were also precious
stones among the treasure, glittering and sparkling,
so that it is a wonder how their radiance could
have been concealed.</p>

<p>There is something sad and terrible in the idea of
snatching all this wealth from the devouring ocean,
which had possessed it for such a length of years.
It seems as if men had no right to make themselves
rich with it. It ought to have been left with the
skeletons of the ancient Spaniards, who had been
drowned when the ship was wrecked, and whose
<pb n="072" />
<anchor id="Pg072" />
bones were now scattered among the gold and
silver.</p>

<p>But Captain Phips and his crew were troubled
with no such thoughts as these. After a day or
two they lighted on another part of the wreck, where
they found a great many bags of silver dollars.
But nobody could have guessed that these were
money-bags. By remaining so long in the salt-water,
they had become covered over with a crust which
had the appearance of stone, so that it was necessary
to break them in pieces with hammers and axes.
When this was done, a stream of silver dollars
gushed out upon the deck of the vessel.</p>

<p>The whole value of the recovered treasure, plate,
bullion, precious stones, and all, was estimated at
more than two millions of dollars. It was dangerous
even to look at such a vast amount of wealth.
A sea captain, who had assisted Phips in the enterprise,
utterly lost his reason at the sight of it. He
died two years afterwards, still raving about the
treasures that lie at the bottom of the sea. It would
have been better for this man, if he had left the
skeletons of the shipwrecked Spaniards in quiet
possession of their wealth.</p>

<p>Captain Phips and his men continued to fish up
plate, bullion, and dollars, as plentifully as ever, till
their provisions grew short. Then, as they could
not feed upon gold and silver any more than old
King Midas could, they found it necessary to go
in search of better sustenance. Phips resolved
<pb n="073" />
<anchor id="Pg073" />
to return to England. He arrived there in 1687,
and was received with great joy by the Duke
of Albemarle and the other English lords, who had
fitted out the vessel. Well they might rejoice; for
they took by far the greater part of the treasure to
themselves.</p>

<p>The Captain's share, however, was enough to
make him comfortable for the rest of his days. It
also enabled him to fulfil his promise to his wife, by
building a "fair brick house," in the Green Lane of
Boston. The Duke of Albemarle sent Mrs. Phips a
magnificent gold cup, worth at least five thousand
dollars. Before Captain Phips left London, King
James made him a knight; so that, instead of the
obscure ship-carpenter who had formerly dwelt
among them, the inhabitants of Boston welcomed
him on his return, as the rich and famous Sir William
Phips.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="074" />
<anchor id="Pg074" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter XI</head>

<p>"Sir William Phips," continued Grandfather,
"was too active and adventurous a man to sit still
in the quiet enjoyment of his good fortune. In the
year 1690, he went on a military expedition against
the French colonies in America, conquered the
whole province of Acadie, and returned to Boston
with a great deal of plunder."</p>

<p>"Why, grandfather, he was the greatest man
that ever sat in the chair!" cried Charley.</p>

<p>"Ask Laurence what he thinks," replied Grandfather
with a smile. "Well; in the same year, Sir
William took command of an expedition against
Quebec, but did not succeed in capturing the city.
In 1692, being then in London, King William the
Third appointed him governor of Massachusetts.
And now, my dear children, having followed Sir
William Phips through all his adventures and hardships,
till we find him comfortably seated in Grandfather's
chair, we will here bid him farewell. May
he be as happy in ruling a people, as he was while
he tended sheep!"</p>

<p>Charley, whose fancy had been greatly taken by
the adventurous disposition of Sir William Phips,
was eager to know how he had acted, and what happened
<pb n="075" />
<anchor id="Pg075" />
to him while he held the office of governor.
But Grandfather had made up his mind to tell no
more stories for the present.</p>

<p>"Possibly, one of these days, I may go on with
the adventures of the chair," said he. "But its
history becomes very obscure just at this point; and
I must search into some old books and manuscripts,
before proceeding further. Besides, it is now a
good time to pause in our narrative; because the
new charter, which Sir William Phips brought over
from England, formed a very important epoch in the
history of the province."</p>

<p>"Really, Grandfather," observed Laurence, "this
seems to be the most remarkable chair in the world.
Its history cannot be told without intertwining it
with the lives of distinguished men, and the great
events that have befallen the country."</p>

<p>"True, Laurence," replied Grandfather, smiling,
"We must write a book, with some such title as
this,&#8212;<hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Memoirs of my own Times, by Grandfather's
Chair</hi>."</p>

<p>"That would be beautiful!" exclaimed Laurence,
clapping his hands.</p>

<p>"But, after all," continued Grandfather, "any
other old chair, if it possessed memory, and a hand
to write its recollections, could record stranger stories
than any that I have told you. From generation
to generation, a chair sits familiarly in the midst
of human interests, and is witness to the most secret
and confidential intercourse, that mortal man can
<pb n="076" />
<anchor id="Pg076" />
hold with his fellow. The human heart may best
be read in the fireside chair. And as to external
events, Grief and Joy keep a continual vicissitude
around it and within it. Now we see the glad face
and glowing form of Joy, sitting merrily in the old
chair, and throwing a warm fire-light radiance over
all the household. Now, while we thought not of it,
the dark clad mourner, Grief, has stolen into the
place of Joy, but not to retain it long. The imagination
can hardly grasp so wide a subject, as is embraced
in the experience of a family chair."</p>

<p>"It makes my breath flutter,&#8212;my heart thrill,&#8212;to
think of it," said Laurence. "Yes; a family
chair must have a deeper history than a Chair of
State."</p>

<p>"O, yes!" cried Clara, expressing a woman's
feeling on the point in question, "The history of a
country is not nearly so interesting as that of a single
family would be."</p>

<p>"But the history of a country is more easily told,"
said Grandfather. "So, if we proceed with our
narrative of the chair, I shall still confine myself to
its connection with public events."</p>

<p>Good old Grandfather now rose and quitted the
room, while the children remained gazing at the
chair. Laurence, so vivid was his conception of
past times, would hardly have deemed it strange, if
its former occupants, one after another, had resumed
the seat which they had each left vacant, such a
dim length of years ago.
<pb n="077" />
<anchor id="Pg077" /></p>

<p>First, the gentle and lovely lady Arbella would
have been seen in the old chair, almost sinking out
of its arms, for very weakness; then Roger Williams,
in his cloak and band, earnest, energetic, and benevolent;
then the figure of Anne Hutchinson, with the
like gesture as when she presided at the assemblages
of women; then the dark, intellectual face of Vane,
"young in years, but in sage counsel old." Next
would have appeared the successive governors, Winthrop,
Dudley, Bellingham, and Endicott, who sat in
the chair, while it was a Chair of State. Then its
ample seat would have been pressed by the comfortable,
rotund corporation of the honest mint-master.
Then the half-frenzied shape of Mary Dyer, the persecuted
Quaker woman, clad in sackcloth and ashes,
would have rested in it for a moment. Then the
holy apostolic form of Eliot would have sanctified it.
Then would have arisen, like the shade of departed
Puritanism, the venerable dignity of the white-bearded
Governor Bradstreet. Lastly, on the gorgeous
crimson cushion of Grandfather's chair, would
have shone the purple and golden magnificence of
Sir William Phips.</p>

<p>But, all these, with the other historic personages,
in the midst of whom the chair had so often stood,
had passed, both in substance and shadow, from the
scene of ages. Yet here stood the chair, with the
old Lincoln coat of arms, and the oaken flowers and
foliage, and the fierce lion's head at the summit, the
whole, apparently, in as perfect preservation as when
<pb n="078" />
<anchor id="Pg078" />
it had first been placed in the Earl of Lincoln's Hall.
And what vast changes of society and of nations had
been wrought by sudden convulsions or by slow
degrees, since that era!</p>

<p>"This chair has stood firm when the thrones of
kings were overturned!" thought Laurence. "Its
oaken frame has proved stronger than many frames
of government!"</p>

<p>More the thoughtful and imaginative boy might
have mused; but now a large yellow cat, a great
favorite with all the children, leaped in at the open
window. Perceiving that Grandfather's chair was
empty, and having often before experienced its comforts,
puss laid herself quietly down upon the cushion.
Laurence, Clara, Charley, and little Alice, all
laughed at the idea of such a successor to the worthies
of old times.</p>

<p>"Pussy," said little Alice, putting out her hand,
into which the cat laid a velvet paw, "you look very
wise. Do tell us a story about <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Grandfather's
Chair</hi>!"</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="079" />
<anchor id="Pg079" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Part II</head>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter I</head>

<p>"O Grandfather," dear Grandfather, cried little
Alice, "pray tell us some more stories about your
chair!"</p>

<p>How long a time had fled, since the children had
felt any curiosity to hear the sequel of this venerable
chair's adventures! Summer was now past and
gone, and the better part of Autumn likewise.
Dreary, chill November was howling, out of doors,
and vexing the atmosphere with sudden showers of
wintry rain, or sometimes with gusts of snow, that
rattled like small pebbles against the windows.</p>

<p>When the weather began to grow cool, Grandfather's
chair had been removed from the summer
parlor into a smaller and snugger room. It now
stood by the side of a bright blazing wood-fire.
Grandfather loved a wood-fire, far better than a
<pb n="080" />
<anchor id="Pg080" />
grate of glowing anthracite, or than the dull heat of
an invisible furnace, which seems to think that it
has done its duty in merely warming the house.
But the wood-fire is a kindly, cheerful, sociable
spirit, sympathizing with mankind, and knowing
that to create warmth is but one of the good offices
which are expected from it. Therefore it dances
on the hearth, and laughs broadly through the room,
and plays a thousand antics, and throws a joyous
glow over all the faces that encircle it.</p>

<p>In the twilight of the evening, the fire grew
brighter and more cheerful. And thus, perhaps,
there was something in Grandfather's heart, that
cheered him most with its warmth and comfort in
the gathering twilight of old age. He had been
gazing at the red embers, as intently as if his past
life were all pictured there, or as if it were a prospect
of the future world, when little Alice's voice
aroused him.</p>

<p>"Dear Grandfather," repeated the little girl,
more earnestly, "do talk to us again about your
chair."</p>

<p>Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little
Alice, had been attracted to other objects, for two
or three months past. They had sported in the
gladsome sunshine of the present, and so had forgotten
the shadowy region of the past, in the midst
of which stood Grandfather's chair. But now, in
the autumnal twilight, illuminated by the flickering
blaze of the wood-fire, they looked at the old chair
<pb n="081" />
<anchor id="Pg081" />
and thought that it had never before worn such an
interesting aspect. There it stood, in the venerable
majesty of more than two hundred years. The light
from the hearth quivered upon the flowers and foliage,
that were wrought into its oaken back; and
the lion's head at the summit seemed almost to
move its jaws and shake its mane.</p>

<p>"Does little Alice speak for all of you?" asked
Grandfather. "Do you wish me to go on with the
adventures of the chair?"</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, yes, Grandfather!" cried Clara.
"The dear old chair! How strange that we should
have forgotten it so long!"</p>

<p>"Oh, pray begin, Grandfather," said Laurence;
"for I think, when we talk about old times, it should
be in the early evening before the candles are lighted.
The shapes of the famous persons, who once sat in
the chair, will be more apt to come back, and be
seen among us, in this glimmer and pleasant gloom,
than they would in the vulgar daylight. And,
besides, we can make pictures of all that you tell us,
among the glowing embers and white ashes."</p>

<p>Our friend Charley, too, thought the evening the
best time to hear Grandfather's stories, because he
could not then be playing out of doors. So, finding
his young auditors unanimous in their petition, the
good old gentleman took up the narrative of the historic
chair, at the point where he had dropt it.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="082" />
<anchor id="Pg082" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" /><head>Chapter II</head>

<p>"You recollect, my dear children," said Grandfather,
"that we took leave of the chair in 1692,
while it was occupied by Sir William Phips. This
fortunate treasure-seeker, you will remember, had
come over from England, with King William's commission
to be Governor of Massachusetts. Within
the limits of this province were now included the
old colony of Plymouth, and the territories of Maine
and Nova Scotia. Sir William Phips had likewise
brought a new charter from the king, which served
instead of a constitution, and set forth the method in
which the province was to be governed."</p>

<p>"Did the new charter allow the people all their
former liberties?" inquired Laurence.</p>

<p>"No," replied Grandfather. "Under the first
charter, the people had been the source of all power.
Winthrop, Endicott, Bradstreet, and the rest of
them, had been governors by the choice of the people,
without any interference of the king. But henceforth
the governor was to hold his station solely by
the king's appointment, and during his pleasure; and
the same was the case with the lieutenant-governor,
and some other high officers. The people, however,
were still allowed to choose representatives; and the
governor's council was chosen by the general court."</p>
<pb n="083" />
<anchor id="Pg083" />

<p>"Would the inhabitants have elected Sir William
Phips," asked Laurence, "if the choice of governor
had been left to them?"</p>

<p>"He might probably have been a successful candidate,"
answered Grandfather; "for his adventures
and military enterprises had gained him a sort of
renown, which always goes a great way with the
people. And he had many popular characteristics,
being a kind, warm-hearted man, not ashamed of
his low origin, nor haughty in his present elevation.
Soon after his arrival, he proved that he did not
blush to recognize his former associates."</p>

<p>"How was that?" inquired Charley.</p>

<p>"He made a grand festival at his new brick
house," said Grandfather, "and invited all the
ship-carpenters of Boston to be his guests. At the
head of the table, in our great chair, sat Sir William
Phips himself, treating these hard handed men
as his brethren, cracking jokes with them, and talking
familiarly about old times. I know not whether
he wore his embroidered dress, but I rather choose
to imagine that he had on a suit of rough clothes,
such as he used to labor in, while he was Phips the
ship-carpenter."</p>

<p>"An aristocrat need not be ashamed of the
trade," observed Laurence; "for the czar Peter
the Great once served an apprenticeship to it."</p>

<p>"Did Sir William Phips make as good a governor
as he was a ship-carpenter?" asked Charley.</p>
<pb n="084" />
<anchor id="Pg084" />

<p>"History says but little about his merits as a
ship-carpenter," answered Grandfather; "but, as
a governor, a great deal of fault was found with
him. Almost as soon as he assumed the government,
he became engaged in a very frightful business,
which might have perplexed a wiser and better
cultivated head than his. This was the witchcraft
delusion."</p>

<p>And here Grandfather gave his auditors such
details of this melancholy affair, as he thought it fit
for them to know. They shuddered to hear that a
frenzy, which led to the death of many innocent persons,
had originated in the wicked arts of a few
children. They belonged to the Rev. Mr. Parris,
minister of Salem. These children complained of
being pinched, and pricked with pins, and otherwise
tormented by the shapes of men and women,
who were supposed to have power to haunt them
invisibly, both in darkness and daylight. Often,
in the midst of their family and friends, the children
would pretend to be seized with strange convulsions,
and would cry out that the witches were
afflicting them.</p>

<p>These stories spread abroad, and caused great
tumult and alarm. From the foundation of New
England, it had been the custom of the inhabitants,
in all matters of doubt and difficulty, to look to their
ministers for council. So they did now; but, unfortunately,
the ministers and wise men were more
deluded than the illiterate people. Cotton Mather,
<pb n="085" />
<anchor id="Pg085" />
a very learned and eminent clergyman, believed
that the whole country was full of witches and wizards,
who had given up their hopes of heaven, and
signed a covenant with the Evil One.</p>

<p>Nobody could be certain that his nearest neighbor,
or most intimate friend, was not guilty of this
imaginary crime. The number of those who pretended
to be afflicted by witchcraft, grew daily
more numerous; and they bore testimony against
many of the best and worthiest people. A minister,
named George Burroughs, was among the
accused. In the months of August and September,
1692, he, and nineteen other innocent men
and women, were put to death. The place of execution
was a high hill, on the outskirts of Salem;
so that many of the sufferers, as they stood beneath
the gallows, could discern their own habitations in
the town.</p>

<p>The martyrdom of these guiltless persons seemed
only to increase the madness. The afflicted now
grew bolder in their accusations. Many people of
rank and wealth were either thrown into prison, or
compelled to flee for their lives. Among these
were two sons of old Simon Bradstreet, the last of
the Puritan governors. Mr. Willard, a pious minister
of Boston, was cried out upon as a wizard, in
open court. Mrs. Hale, the wife of the minister of
Beverly, was likewise accused. Philip English, a
rich merchant of Salem, found it necessary to take
flight, leaving his property and business in confusion.
<pb n="086" />
<anchor id="Pg086" />
But a short time afterwards, the Salem people were
glad to invite him back.</p>

<p>"The boldest thing that the accusers did," continued
Grandfather, "was to cry out against the
governor's own beloved wife. Yes; the lady of
Sir William Phips was accused of being a witch,
and of flying through the air to attend witch meetings.
When the governor heard this, he probably
trembled, so that our great chair shook beneath
him."</p>

<p>"Dear Grandfather," cried little Alice, clinging
closer to his knee, "is it true that witches ever
come in the night-time to frighten little children?"</p>

<p>"No, no, dear little Alice," replied Grandfather.
"Even if there were any witches, they would flee
away from the presence of a pure-hearted child.
But there are none; and our forefathers soon
became convinced, that they had been led into a
terrible delusion. All the prisoners on account of
witchcraft were set free. But the innocent dead
could not be restored to life; and the hill where
they were executed, will always remind people of
the saddest and most humiliating passage in our
history."</p>

<p>Grandfather then said, that the next remarkable
event, while Sir William Phips remained in the
chair, was the arrival at Boston of an English fleet,
in 1693. It brought an army, which was intended
for the conquest of Canada. But a malignant disease,
more fatal than the small-pox, broke out
<pb n="087" />
<anchor id="Pg087" />
among the soldiers and sailors, and destroyed the
greater part of them. The infection spread into
the town of Boston, and made much havoc there.
This dreadful sickness caused the governor, and
Sir Francis Wheeler, who was commander of the
British forces, to give up all thoughts of attacking
Canada.</p>

<p>"Soon after this," said Grandfather, "Sir William
Phips quarrelled with the captain of an English
frigate, and also with the Collector of Boston.
Being a man of violent temper, he gave each of
them a sound beating with his cane."</p>

<p>"He was a bold fellow," observed Charley, who
was himself somewhat addicted to a similar mode of
settling disputes.</p>

<p>"More bold than wise," replied Grandfather;
"for complaints were carried to the king, and Sir
William Phips was summoned to England, to make
the best answer he could. Accordingly he went
to London, where, in 1695, he was seized with a
malignant fever, of which he died. Had he lived
longer, he would probably have gone again in
search of sunken treasure. He had heard of a
Spanish ship, which was cast away in 1502, during
the lifetime of Columbus. Bovadilla, Roldan, and
many other Spaniards, were lost in her, together
with the immense wealth of which they had robbed
the South American kings."</p>

<p>"Why, Grandfather," exclaimed Laurence,
"what magnificent ideas the governor had! Only
<pb n="088" />
<anchor id="Pg088" />
think of recovering all that old treasure, which had
lain almost two centuries under the sea! Me thinks
Sir William Phips ought to have been buried in the
ocean, when he died; so that he might have gone
down among the sunken ships, and cargoes of treasure,
which he was always dreaming about in his
lifetime."</p>

<p>"He was buried in one of the crowded cemeteries
of London," said Grandfather. "As he left
no children, his estate was inherited by his nephew,
from whom is descended the present Marquis of
Normandy. The noble Marquis is not aware, perhaps,
that the prosperity of his family originated in
the successful enterprise of a New England ship
carpenter."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="089" />
<anchor id="Pg089" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter III</head>

<p>"At the death of Sir William Phips," proceeded
Grandfather, "our chair was bequeathed to Mr.
Ezekiel Cheever, a famous school-master in Boston.
This old gentleman came from London in 1637, and
had been teaching school ever since; so that there
were now aged men, grandfathers like myself, to
whom Master Cheever had taught their alphabet.
He was a person of venerable aspect, and wore a
long white beard.</p>

<p>"Was the chair placed in his school?" asked
Charley.</p>

<p>"Yes, in his school," answered Grandfather;
"and we may safely say that it had never before
been regarded with such awful reverence&#8212;no, not
even when the old governors of Massachusetts sat in
it. Even you, Charley, my boy, would have felt
some respect for the chair, if you had seen it occupied
by this famous school-master."</p>

<p>And here Grandfather endeavored to give his
auditors an idea how matters were managed in
schools above a hundred years ago. As this will
probably be an interesting subject to our readers,
we shall make a separate sketch of it, and call it</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE OLD-FASHIONED SCHOOL</head>

<p>Now imagine yourselves, my children, in Master
<pb n="090" />
<anchor id="Pg090" />
Ezekiel Cheever's school-room. It is a large, dingy
room, with a sanded floor, and is lighted by windows
that turn on hinges, and have little diamond shaped
panes of glass. The scholars sit on long benches,
with desks before them. At one end of the room is
a great fire-place, so very spacious, that there is
room enough for three or four boys to stand in each
of the chimney corners. This was the good old
fashion of fire-places, when there was wood enough
in the forests to keep people warm, without their
digging into the bowels of the earth for coal.</p>

<p>It is a winter's day when we take our peep into
the school-room. See what great logs of wood have
been rolled into the fire-place, and what a broad,
bright blaze goes leaping up the chimney! And
every few moments, a vast cloud of smoke is puffed
into the room, which sails slowly over the heads of
the scholars, until it gradually settles upon the walls
and ceiling. They are blackened with the smoke of
many years already.</p>

<p rend="text-align: center">
<figure rend="w95" url="images/image02.png"><figDesc>Image #2</figDesc></figure></p><p></p>

<p>Next, look at our old historic chair! It is placed,
you perceive, in the most comfortable part of the
room, where the generous glow of the fire is sufficiently
felt, without being too intensely hot. How
stately the old chair looks, as if it remembered its
many famous occupants, but yet were conscious that
a greater man is sitting in it now! Do you see the
venerable school-master, severe in aspect, with a
black scull-cap on his head, like an ancient Puritan,
and the snow of his white beard drifting down to his
<pb n="091" />
<anchor id="Pg091" />
very girdle? What boy would dare to play, or
whisper, or even glance aside from his book, while
Master Cheever is on the look-out, behind his spectacles!
For such offenders, if any such there be, a
rod of birch is hanging over the fire-place, and a
heavy ferule lies on the master's desk.</p>

<p>And now school is begun. What a murmur of
multitudinous tongues, like the whispering leaves of
a wind-stirred oak, as the scholars con over their various
tasks! Buz, buz, buz! Amid just such a murmur
has Master Cheever spent above sixty years:
and long habit has made it as pleasant to him as the
hum of a bee-hive, when the insects are busy in the
sunshine.</p>

<p>Now a class in Latin is called to recite. Forth
steps a row of queer-looking little fellows, wearing
square-skirted coats, and small clothes, with buttons
at the knee. They look like so many grandfathers
in their second childhood. These lads are to be sent
to Cambridge, and educated for the learned professions.
Old Master Cheever has lived so long, and
seen so many generations of school-boys grow up to
be men, that now he can almost prophesy what sort
of a man each boy will be. One urchin shall hereafter
be a doctor, and administer pills and potions,
and stalk gravely through life, perfumed with assaf[oe]tida.
Another shall wrangle at the bar, and fight
his way to wealth and honors, and in his declining
age, shall be a worshipful member of his Majesty's
council. A third&#8212;and he is the Master's favorite&#8212;shall
<pb n="092" />
<anchor id="Pg092" />
be a worthy successor to the old Puritan
ministers, now in their graves; he shall preach with
great unction and effect, and leave volumes of sermons,
in print and manuscript, for the benefit of
future generations.</p>

<p>But, as they are merely school-boys now, their
business is to construe Virgil. Poor Virgil, whose
verses, which he took so much pains to polish, have
been mis-scanned, and mis-parsed, and mis-interpreted,
by so many generations of idle school-boys!
There, sit down, ye Latinists. Two or three of you,
I fear, are doomed to feel the master's ferule.</p>

<p>Next comes a class in Arithmetic. These boys
are to be the merchants, shop-keepers, and mechanics,
of a future period. Hitherto, they have traded only
in marbles and apples. Hereafter, some will send
vessels to England for broadcloths and all sorts of
manufactured wares, and to the West Indies for
sugar, and rum, and coffee. Others will stand behind
counters, and measure tape, and ribbon, and
cambric, by the yard. Others will upheave the
blacksmith's hammer, or drive the plane over the
carpenter's bench, or take the lapstone and the awl,
and learn the trade of shoe-making. Many will follow
the sea, and become bold, rough sea-captains.</p>

<p>This class of boys, in short, must supply the world
with those active, skilful hands, and clear, sagacious
heads, without which the affairs of life would be
thrown into confusion, by the theories of studious
and visionary men. Wherefore, teach them their
<pb n="093" />
<anchor id="Pg093" />
multiplication table, good Master Cheever, and whip
them well, when they deserve it; for much of the
country's welfare depends on these boys!</p>

<p>But, alas! while we have been thinking of other
matters, Master Cheever's watchful eye has caught
two boys at play. Now we shall see awful times!
The two malefactors are summoned before the master's
chair, wherein he sits, with the terror of a
judge upon his brow. Our old chair is now a judgment-seat.
Ah, Master Cheever has taken down
that terrible birch-rod! Short is the trial&#8212;the
sentence quickly passed&#8212;and now the judge prepares
to execute it in person. Thwack! thwack!
thwack! In those good old times, a school-master's
blows were well laid on.</p>

<p>See! the birch-rod has lost several of its twigs,
and will hardly serve for another execution. Mercy
on us, what a bellowing the urchins make! My
ears are almost deafened, though the clamor comes
through the far length of a hundred and fifty years.
There, go to your seats, poor boys; and do not cry,
sweet little Alice; for they have ceased to feel the
pain, a long time since.</p>

<p>And thus the forenoon passes away. Now it is
twelve o'clock. The master looks at his great silver
watch, and then with tiresome deliberation, puts the
ferule into his desk. The little multitude await the
word of dismissal, with almost irrepressible impatience.</p>

<p>"You are dismissed," says Master Cheever.
<pb n="094" />
<anchor id="Pg094" /></p>

<p>The boys retire, treading softly until they have
passed the threshold; but, fairly out of the school-room,
lo, what a joyous shout!&#8212;what a scampering
and trampling of feet!&#8212;what a sense of recovered
freedom, expressed in the merry uproar of all their
voices! What care they for the ferule and birch-rod
now? Were boys created merely to study Latin
and Arithmetic? No; the better purposes of their
being are to sport, to leap, to run, to shout, to slide
upon the ice, to snow-ball!</p>

<p>Happy boys! Enjoy your play-time now, and
come again to study, and to feel the birch-rod and
the ferule, to-morrow; not till to-morrow, for to-day
is Thursday-lecture; and ever since the settlement
of Massachusetts, there has been no school on Thursday
afternoons. Therefore, sport, boys, while you
may; for the morrow cometh, with the birch-rod and
the ferule; and after that, another Morrow, with
troubles of its own.</p>

<p>Now the master has set every thing to rights, and
is ready to go home to dinner. Yet he goes reluctantly.
The old man has spent so much of his life
in the smoky, noisy, buzzing school-room, that, when
he has a holiday, he feels as if his place were lost,
and himself a stranger in the world. But, forth he
goes; and there stands our old chair, vacant and
solitary, till good Master Cheever resumes his seat
in it to-morrow morning.</p>
<pb n="095" />
<anchor id="Pg095" />

<lb />

<p>"Grandfather," said Charley, "I wonder whether
the boys did not use to upset the old chair, when the
school-master was out?"</p>

<p>"There is a tradition," replied Grandfather, "that
one of its arms was dislocated, in some such manner.
But I cannot believe that any school-boy would behave
so naughtily."</p>

<p>As it was now later than little Alice's usual bedtime,
Grandfather broke off his narrative, promising
to talk more about Master Cheever and his scholars,
some other evening.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="096" />
<anchor id="Pg096" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IV</head>

<p>Accordingly the next evening, Grandfather resumed
the history of his beloved chair.</p>

<p>"Master Ezekiel Cheever," said he, "died in
1707, after having taught school about seventy
years. It would require a pretty good scholar in
arithmetic to tell how many stripes he had inflicted,
and how many birch-rods he had worn out, during
all that time, in his fatherly tenderness for his pupils.
Almost all the great men of that period, and for
many years back, had been whipt into eminence by
Master Cheever. Moreover, he had written a Latin
Accidence, which was used in schools more than half
a century after his death; so that the good old man,
even in his grave, was still the cause of trouble and
stripes to idle school-boys."</p>

<p>Grandfather proceeded to say, that, when Master
Cheever died, he bequeathed the chair to the most
learned man that was educated at his school, or that
had ever been born in America. This was the renowned
Cotton Mather, minister of the Old North
Church in Boston.</p>

<p>"And author of the Magnalia, Grandfather, which
we sometimes see you reading," said Laurence.</p>

<p>"Yes, Laurence," replied Grandfather. "The
Magnalia is a strange, pedantic history, in which
<pb n="097" />
<anchor id="Pg097" />
true events and real personages move before the
reader, with the dreamy aspect which they wore in
Cotton Mather's singular mind. This huge volume,
however, was written and published before our chair
came into his possession. But, as he was the author of
more books than there are days in the year, we may
conclude that he wrote a great deal, while sitting in
this chair."</p>

<p>"I am tired of these school-masters and learned
men," said Charley. "I wish some stirring man,
that knew how to do something in the world, like Sir
William Phips, would set in the chair."</p>

<p>"Such men seldom have leisure to sit quietly in
a chair," said Grandfather. "We must make the
best of such people as we have."</p>

<p>As Cotton Mather was a very distinguished man,
Grandfather took some pains to give the children a
lively conception of his character. Over the door
of his library were painted these words&#8212;BE SHORT&#8212;as
a warning to visitors that they must not do the
world so much harm, as needlessly to interrupt this
great man's wonderful labors. On entering the
room you would probably behold it crowded, and
piled, and heaped with books. There were huge,
ponderous folios and quartos, and little duodecimos,
in English, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Chaldaic, and all
other languages, that either originated at the confusion
of Babel, or have since come into use.</p>

<p>All these books, no doubt, were tossed about in confusion,
thus forming a visible emblem of the manner
<pb n="098" />
<anchor id="Pg098" />
in which their contents were crowded into Cotton
Mather's brain. And in the middle of the room stood a
table, on which, besides printed volumes, were strewn
manuscript sermons, historical tracts, and political
pamphlets, all written in such a queer, blind, crabbed,
fantastical hand, that a writing-master would have
gone raving mad at the sight of them. By this table
stood Grandfather's chair, which seemed already to
have contracted an air of deep erudition, as if its
cushion were stuffed with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew,
and other hard matters.</p>

<p>In this chair, from one year's end to another, sat
that prodigious book-worm, Cotton Mather, sometimes
devouring a great book, and sometimes scribbling
one as big. In Grandfather's younger days,
there used to be a wax figure of him in one of the
Boston museums, representing a solemn, dark-visaged
person, in a minister's black gown, and with a
black-letter volume before him.</p>

<p>"It is difficult, my children," observed Grandfather,
"to make you understand such a character
as Cotton Mather's, in whom there was so much good,
and yet so many failings and frailties. Undoubtedly,
he was a pious man. Often he kept fasts;
and once, for three whole days, he allowed himself
not a morsel of food, but spent the time in prayer
and religious meditation. Many a live-long night
did he watch and pray. These fasts and vigils made
him meagre and haggard, and probably caused him
to appear as if he hardly belonged to the world."</p>
<pb n="099" />
<anchor id="Pg099" />

<p>"Was not the witchcraft delusion partly caused
by Cotton Mather?" inquired Laurence.</p>

<p>"He was the chief agent of the mischief," answered
Grandfather; "but we will not suppose that
he acted otherwise than conscientiously. He believed
that there were evil spirits all about the
world. Doubtless he imagined that they were hidden
in the corners and crevices of his library, and
that they peeped out from among the leaves of many
of his books, as he turned them over, at midnight.
He supposed that these unlovely demons were everywhere,
in the sunshine as well as in the darkness, and
that they were hidden in men's hearts, and stole into
their most secret thoughts."</p>

<p>Here Grandfather was interrupted by little Alice,
who hid her face in his lap, and murmured a wish
that he would not talk any more about Cotton Mather
and the evil spirits. Grandfather kissed her,
and told her that angels were the only spirits whom
she had any thing to do with. He then spoke of the
public affairs of the period.</p>

<p>A new war between France and England had
broken out in 1702, and had been raging ever since.
In the course of it, New England suffered much injury
from the French and Indians, who often came
through the woods from Canada, and assaulted the
frontier towns. Villages were sometimes burnt, and
the inhabitants slaughtered, within a day's ride of
Boston. The people of New England had a bitter
hatred against the French, not only for the mischief
<pb n="100" />
<anchor id="Pg100" />
which they did with their own hands, but because
they incited the Indians to hostility.</p>

<p>The New Englanders knew that they could never
dwell in security, until the provinces of France
should be subdued, and brought under the English
government. They frequently, in time of war, undertook
military expeditions against Acadia and
Canada, and sometimes besieged the fortresses, by
which those territories were defended. But the
most earnest wish of their hearts was, to take Quebec,
and so get possession of the whole province of
Canada. Sir William Phips had once attempted it,
but without success.</p>

<p>Fleets and soldiers were often sent from England,
to assist the colonists in their warlike undertakings.
In 1710, Port Royal, a fortress of Acadia, was
taken by the English. The next year, in the month
of June, a fleet, commanded by Admiral Sir Hovenden
Walker, arrived in Boston Harbor. On board
of this fleet was the English General Hill, with seven
regiments of soldiers, who had been fighting under
the Duke of Marlborough, in Flanders. The government
of Massachusetts was called upon to find
provisions for the army and fleet, and to raise more
men to assist in taking Canada.</p>

<p>What with recruiting and drilling of soldiers, there
was now nothing but warlike bustle in the streets of
Boston. The drum and fife, the rattle of arms, and
the shouts of boys, were heard from morning till
night. In about a month, the fleet set sail, carrying
<pb n="101" />
<anchor id="Pg101" />
four regiments from New England and New York,
besides the English soldiers. The whole army
amounted to at least seven thousand men. They
steered for the mouth of the river St. Lawrence.</p>

<p>"Cotton Mather prayed most fervently for their
success," continued Grandfather, "both in his pulpit,
and when he kneeled down in the solitude of his
library, resting his face on our old chair. But
Providence ordered the result otherwise. In a few
weeks, tidings were received, that eight or nine of
the vessels had been wrecked in the St. Lawrence,
and that above a thousand drowned soldiers had been
washed ashore, on the banks of that mighty river.
After this misfortune, Sir Hovenden Walker set sail
for England; and many pious people began to think
it a sin, even to wish for the conquest of Canada."</p>

<p>"I would never give it up so," cried Charley.</p>

<p>"Nor did they, as we shall see," replied Grandfather.
"However, no more attempts were made
during this war, which came to a close in 1713.
The people of New England were probably glad of
some repose; for their young men had been made
soldiers, till many of them were fit for nothing else.
And those, who remained at home, had been heavily
taxed to pay for the arms, ammunition, fortifications,
and all the other endless expenses of a war. There
was great need of the prayers of Cotton Mather, and
of all pious men, not only on account of the sufferings
of the people, but because the old moral and religious
character of New England was in danger of
being utterly lost."
<pb n="102" />
<anchor id="Pg102" /></p>

<p>"How glorious it would have been," remarked
Laurence, "if our forefathers could have kept the
country unspotted with blood."</p>

<p>"Yes," said Grandfather; "but there was a stern
warlike spirit in them, from the beginning. They
seem never to have thought of questioning either
the morality or piety of war."</p>

<p>The next event, which Grandfather spoke of, was
one that Cotton Mather, as well as most of the other
inhabitants of New England, heartily rejoiced at.
This was the accession of the Elector of Hanover to
the throne of England, in 1714, on the death of
Queen Anne. Hitherto, the people had been in
continual dread that the male line of the Stuarts,
who were descended from the beheaded King
Charles and the banished King James, would be
restored to the throne. In that case, as the Stuart
family were Roman Catholics, it was supposed that
they would attempt to establish their own religion
throughout the British dominions. But the Elector
of Hanover, and all his race, were Protestants; so
that now the descendants of the old Puritans were
relieved from many fears and disquietudes.</p>

<p>"The importance of this event," observed Grandfather,
"was a thousand times greater than that of
a Presidential Election, in our own days. If the
people dislike their president, they may get rid of
him in four years; whereas, a dynasty of kings may
wear the crown for an unlimited period."</p>

<p>The German elector was proclaimed king from
<pb n="103" />
<anchor id="Pg103" />
the balcony of the town-house, in Boston, by the title
of George the First, while the trumpets sounded,
and the people cried Amen. That night, the town
was illuminated; and Cotton Mather threw aside
book and pen, and left Grandfather's chair vacant,
while he walked hither and thither to witness the
rejoicings.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="104" />
<anchor id="Pg104" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VI</head>

<p>"Cotton Mather," continued Grandfather,
"was a bitter enemy to Governor Dudley; and
nobody exulted more than he, when that crafty politician
was removed from the government, and succeeded
by Colonel Shute. This took place in 1716.
The new governor had been an officer in the renowned
Duke of Marlborough's army, and had
fought in some of the great battles in Flanders."</p>

<p>"Now, I hope," said Charley, "we shall hear of
his doing great things."</p>

<p>"I am afraid you will be disappointed, Charley,"
answered Grandfather. "It is true, that Colonel
Shute had probably never led so unquiet a life while
fighting the French, as he did now, while governing
this province of Massachusetts Bay. But his troubles
consisted almost entirely of dissensions with the
legislature. The king had ordered him to lay claim
to a fixed salary; but the representatives of the
people insisted upon paying him only such sums,
from year to year, as they saw fit."</p>

<p>Grandfather here explained some of the circumstances,
that made the situation of a colonial governor
so difficult and irksome. There was not the
same feeling towards the chief magistrate, now,
that had existed, while he was chosen by the free
<pb n="105" />
<anchor id="Pg105" />
suffrages of the people. It was felt, that, as the
king appointed the governor, and as he held his
office during the king's pleasure, it would be his
great object to please the king. But the people
thought, that a governor ought to have nothing in
view, but the best interests of those whom he
governed.</p>

<p>"The governor," remarked Grandfather, "had
two masters to serve&#8212;the king, who appointed
him, and the people, on whom he depended for his
pay. Few men, in this position, would have ingenuity
enough to satisfy either party. Colonel
Shute, though a good-natured, well-meaning man,
succeeded so ill with the people, that in 1722, he
suddenly went away to England, and made complaint
to King George. In the mean time, Lieutenant-Governor
Dummer directed the affairs of the province,
and carried on a long and bloody war with the
Indians."</p>

<p>"But where was our chair, all this time?" asked
Clara.</p>

<p>"It still remained in Cotton Mather's library,"
replied Grandfather; "and I must not omit to tell
you an incident, which is very much to the honor of
this celebrated man. It is the more proper, too,
that you should hear it, because it will show you
what a terrible calamity the small pox was to our
forefathers. The history of the province, (and, of
course, the history of our chair,) would be incomplete,
without particular mention of it."
<pb n="106" />
<anchor id="Pg106" />
Accordingly, Grandfather told the children a
story, to which, for want of a better title, we shall
give that of</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE REJECTED BLESSING</head>

<p>One day, in 1721, Doctor Cotton Mather sat
in his library, reading a book that had been published
by the Royal Society of London. But, every
few moments, he laid the book upon the table, and
leaned back in Grandfather's chair, with an aspect
of deep care and disquietude. There were certain
things which troubled him exceedingly, so that he
could hardly fix his thoughts upon what he read.</p>

<p>It was now a gloomy time in Boston. That terrible
disease, the small pox, had recently made its
appearance in the town. Ever since the first settlement
of the country, this awful pestilence had
come, at intervals, and swept away multitudes of the
inhabitants. Whenever it commenced its ravages,
nothing seemed to stay its progress, until there were
no more victims for it to seize upon. Oftentimes,
hundreds of people, at once, lay groaning with its
agony; and when it departed, its deep footsteps
were always to be traced in many graves.</p>

<p>The people never felt secure from this calamity.
Sometimes, perhaps, it was brought into the country
by a poor sailor, who had caught the infection in foreign
parts, and came hither to die, and to be the
cause of many deaths. Sometimes, no doubt, it
<pb n="107" />
<anchor id="Pg107" />
followed in the train of the pompous governors, when
they came over from England. Sometimes, the disease
lay hidden in the cargoes of ships, among silks
and brocades, and other costly merchandise, which
was imported for the rich people to wear. And,
sometimes, it started up, seemingly of its own accord;
and nobody could tell whence it came. The
physician, being called to attend the sick person,
would look at him, and say,&#8212;"It is the small pox!
let the patient be carried to the hospital."</p>

<p>And now, this dreadful sickness had shown itself
again in Boston. Cotton Mather was greatly
afflicted, for the sake of the whole province. He
had children, too, who were exposed to the danger.
At that very moment, he heard the voice of his
youngest son, for whom his heart was moved with
apprehension.</p>

<p>"Alas! I fear for that poor child," said Cotton
Mather to himself. "What shall I do for my son
Samuel?"</p>

<p>Again, he attempted to drive away these thoughts,
by taking up the book which he had been reading.
And now, all of a sudden, his attention became fixed.
The book contained a printed letter that an Italian
physician had written upon the very subject, about
which Cotton Mather was so anxiously meditating.
He ran his eye eagerly over the pages; and, behold!
a method was disclosed to him, by which the small
pox might be robbed of its worst terrors. Such a
method was known in Greece. The physicians of
<pb n="108" />
<anchor id="Pg108" />
Turkey, too, those long-bearded Eastern sages, had
been acquainted with it for many years. The negroes
of Africa, ignorant as they were, had likewise
practised it, and thus had shown themselves wiser
than the white men.</p>

<p>"Of a truth," ejaculated Cotton Mather, clasping
his hands and looking up to Heaven, "it was a
merciful Providence that brought this book under
mine eye! I will procure a consultation of physicians,
and see whether this wondrous Inoculation
may not stay the progress of the Destroyer."</p>

<p>So he arose from Grandfather's chair, and went
out of the library. Near the door he met his son
Samuel, who seemed downcast and out of spirits.
The boy had heard, probably, that some of his playmates
were taken ill with the small pox. But, as his
father looked cheerfully at him, Samuel took courage,
trusting that either the wisdom of so learned a
minister would find some remedy for the danger,
or else that his prayers would secure protection from
on high.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Cotton Mather took his staff and three-cornered
hat, and walked about the streets, calling
at the houses of all the physicians in Boston. They
were a very wise fraternity; and their huge wigs,
and black dresses, and solemn visages, made their
wisdom appear even profounder than it was. One
after another, he acquainted them with the discovery
which he had hit upon.</p>

<p>But these grave and sagacious personages would
<pb n="109" />
<anchor id="Pg109" />
scarcely listen to him. The oldest doctor in town
contented himself with remarking, that no such thing
as inoculation was mentioned by Galen or Hippocrates,
and it was impossible that modern physicians
should be wiser than those old sages. A second
held up his hands in dumb astonishment and horror,
at the madness of what Cotton Mather proposed to
do. A third told him, in pretty plain terms, that he
knew not what he was talking about. A fourth requested,
in the name of the whole medical fraternity,
that Cotton Mather would confine his attention to
people's souls, and leave the physicians to take care
of their bodies.</p>

<p>In short, there was but a single doctor among
them all, who would grant the poor minister so
much as a patient hearing. This was Doctor Zabdiel
Boylston. He looked into the matter like a
man of sense, and finding, beyond a doubt, that inoculation
had rescued many from death, he resolved
to try the experiment in his own family.</p>

<p>And so he did. But, when the other physicians
heard of it, they arose in great fury, and began a
war of words, written, printed, and spoken, against
Cotton Mather and Doctor Boylston. To hear
them talk, you would have supposed that these two
harmless and benevolent men had plotted the ruin
of the country.</p>

<p>The people, also, took the alarm. Many, who
thought themselves more pious than their neighbors,
contended, that, if Providence had ordained
<pb n="110" />
<anchor id="Pg110" />
them to die of the small pox, it was sinful to aim
at preventing it. The strangest reports were in
circulation. Some said, that Doctor Boylston had
contrived a method for conveying the gout, rheumatism,
sick headache, asthma, and all other diseases,
from one person to another, and diffusing them
through the whole community. Others flatly affirmed
that the Evil One had got possession of Cotton
Mather, and was at the bottom of the whole business.</p>

<p>You must observe, children, that Cotton Mather's
fellow citizens were generally inclined to doubt the
wisdom of any measure, which he might propose
to them. They recollected how he had led them
astray in the old witchcraft delusion; and now, if
he thought and acted ever so wisely, it was difficult
for him to get the credit of it.</p>

<p>The people's wrath grew so hot at his attempt to
guard them from the small pox, that he could not
walk the streets in peace. Whenever the venerable
form of the old minister, meagre and haggard with
fasts and vigils, was seen approaching, hisses were
heard, and shouts of derision, and scornful and bitter
laughter. The women snatched away their children
from his path, lest he should do them a mischief.
Still, however, bending his head meekly,
and perhaps stretching out his hands to bless those
who reviled him, he pursued his way. But the
tears came into his eyes, to think how blindly the
people rejected the means of safety, that were offered
them.</p>
<pb n="111" />
<anchor id="Pg111" />

<p>Indeed, there were melancholy sights enough in the
streets of Boston, to draw forth the tears of a compassionate
man. Over the door of almost every
dwelling, a red flag was fluttering in the air. This
was the signal that the small pox had entered the
house, and attacked some member of the family;
or perhaps the whole family, old and young, were
struggling at once with the pestilence. Friends
and relatives, when they met one another in the
streets, would hurry onward without a grasp of the
hand, or scarcely a word of greeting, lest they should
catch or communicate the contagion. And, often a
coffin was borne hastily along.</p>

<p>"Alas, alas!" said Cotton Mather to himself.
"What shall be done for this poor, misguided people?
Oh, that Providence would open their eyes,
and enable them to discern good from evil!"</p>

<p>So furious, however, were the people, that they
threatened vengeance against any person who should
dare to practise inoculation, though it were only in
his own family. This was a hard case for Cotton
Mather, who saw no other way to rescue his poor
child Samuel from the disease. But he resolved to
save him, even if his house should be burnt over his
head.</p>

<p>"I will not be turned aside," said he. "My
townsmen shall see that I have faith in this thing,
when I make the experiment on my beloved son,
whose life is dearer to me than my own. And when
<pb n="112" />
<anchor id="Pg112" />
I have saved Samuel, peradventure they will be persuaded
to save themselves."</p>

<p>Accordingly, Samuel was inoculated; and so was
Mr. Walter, a son-in-law of Cotton Mather. Doctor
Boylston, likewise, inoculated many persons;
and while hundreds died, who had caught the
contagion from the garments of the sick, almost all
were preserved, who followed the wise physician's
advice.</p>

<p>But the people were not yet convinced of their
mistake. One night, a destructive little instrument,
called a hand-grenade, was thrown into Cotton Mather's
window, and rolled under Grandfather's chair.
It was supposed to be filled with gunpowder, the
explosion of which would have blown the poor minister
to atoms. But the best-informed historians are of
opinion, that the grenade contained only brimstone
and assaf[oe]tida, and was meant to plague Cotton
Mather with a very evil perfume.</p>

<p>This is no strange thing in human experience.
Men, who attempt to do the world more good, than
the world is able entirely to comprehend, are almost
invariably held in bad odor. But yet, if the wise
and good man can wait awhile, either the present
generation or posterity, will do him justice. So it
proved, in the case which we have been speaking of.
In after years, when inoculation was universally
practised, and thousands were saved from death by it,
the people remembered old Cotton Mather, then
<pb n="113" />
<anchor id="Pg113" />
sleeping in his grave. They acknowledged that
the very thing, for which they had so reviled and
persecuted him, was the best and wisest thing he
ever did.</p>

<lb />

<p>"Grandfather, this is not an agreeable story,"
observed Clara.</p>

<p>"No, Clara," replied Grandfather. "But it is
right that you should know what a dark shadow this
disease threw over the times of our forefathers. And
now, if you wish to learn more about Cotton Mather,
you must read his biography, written by Mr. Peabody,
of Springfield. You will find it very entertaining
and instructive; but perhaps the writer is
somewhat too harsh in his judgment of this singular
man. He estimates him fairly, indeed, and understands
him well; but he unriddles his character
rather by acuteness than by sympathy. Now, his
life should have been written by one, who, knowing
all his faults, would nevertheless love him."</p>

<p>So Grandfather made an end of Cotton Mather,
telling his auditors that he died in 1728, at the age
of sixty-five, and bequeathed the chair to Elisha
Cooke. This gentleman was a famous advocate of
the people's rights.</p>

<p>The same year, William Burnet, a son of the celebrated
Bishop Burnet, arrived in Boston, with the
commission of governor. He was the first that had
been appointed since the departure of Colonel Shute.
Governor Burnet took up his residence with Mr.
<pb n="114" />
<anchor id="Pg114" />
Cooke, while the Province House was undergoing
repairs. During this period, he was always complimented
with a seat in Grandfather's chair; and so
comfortable did he find it, that on removing to the
Province House, he could not bear to leave it behind
him. Mr. Cooke, therefore, requested his acceptance
of it.</p>

<p>"I should think," said Laurence, "that the
people would have petitioned the king always to
appoint a native-born New Englander to govern
them."</p>

<p>"Undoubtedly it was a grievance," answered
Grandfather, "to see men placed in this station,
who perhaps had neither talents nor virtues to fit
them for it, and who certainly could have no natural
affection for the country. The king generally bestowed
the governorships of the American colonies
upon needy noblemen, or hangers-on at court, or disbanded
officers. The people knew that such persons
would be very likely to make the good of the country
subservient to the wishes of the king. The legislature,
therefore, endeavored to keep as much power
as possible in their own hands, by refusing to settle
a fixed salary upon the governors. It was thought
better to pay them according to their deserts."</p>

<p>"Did Governor Burnet work well for his money?"
asked Charley.</p>

<p>Grandfather could not help smiling at the simplicity
of Charley's question. Nevertheless, it put
the matter in a very plain point of view.</p>
<pb n="115" />
<anchor id="Pg115" />

<p>He then described the character of Governor
Burnet, representing him as a good scholar, possessed
of much ability, and likewise of unspotted integrity.
His story affords a striking example, how
unfortunate it is for a man, who is placed as ruler
over a country, to be compelled to aim at any thing
but the good of the people. Governor Burnet was
so chained down by his instructions from the king,
that he could not act as he might otherwise have
wished. Consequently, his whole term of office was
wasted in quarrels with the legislature.</p>

<p>"I am afraid, children," said Grandfather, "that
Governor Burnet found but little rest or comfort in
our old chair. Here he used to sit, dressed in a
coat which was made of rough, shaggy cloth outside,
but of smooth velvet within. It was said that his
own character resembled that coat, for his outward
manner was rough, but his inward disposition soft
and kind. It is a pity that such a man could not
have been kept free from trouble. But so harassing
were his disputes with the representatives of the
people, that he fell into a fever, of which he died,
in 1720. The legislature had refused him a salary,
while alive; but they appropriated money enough
to give him a splendid and pompous funeral."</p>

<p>And now Grandfather perceived that little Alice
had fallen fast asleep, with her head upon his footstool.
Indeed, as Clara observed, she had been
sleeping from the time of Sir Hovenden Walker's
expedition against Quebec, until the death of Governor
<pb n="116" />
<anchor id="Pg116" />
Burnet&#8212;a period of about eighteen years.
And yet, after so long a nap, sweet little Alice was
a golden-haired child, of scarcely five years old.</p>

<p>"It puts me in mind," said Laurence, "of the
story of the enchanted princess, who slept many a
hundred years, and awoke as young and beautiful
as ever."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="117" />
<anchor id="Pg117" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VII</head>

<p>A few evenings afterwards, cousin Clara happened
to inquire of Grandfather, whether the old
chair had never been present at a ball. At the
same time, little Alice brought forward a doll, with
whom she had been holding a long conversation.</p>

<p>"See, Grandfather," cried she. "Did such a
pretty lady as this ever sit in your great chair?"</p>

<p>These questions led Grandfather to talk about the
fashions and manners, which now began to be introduced
from England into the provinces. The simplicity
of the good old Puritan times was fast disappearing.
This was partly owing to the increasing
number and wealth of the inhabitants, and to the
additions which they continually received, by the
arrival and settlement of people from beyond the
sea.</p>

<p>Another cause of a pompous and artificial mode
of life, among those who could afford it, was, that the
example was set by the royal governors. Under
the old charter, the governors were the representatives
of the people, and therefore their way of living
had probably been marked by a popular simplicity.
But now, as they represented the person of the king,
they thought it necessary to preserve the dignity of
<pb n="118" />
<anchor id="Pg118" />
their station, by the practice of high and gorgeous
ceremonials. And, besides, the profitable offices
under the government were filled by men who had
lived in London, and had there contracted fashionable
and luxurious habits of living, which they would
not now lay aside. The wealthy people of the province
imitated them; and thus began a general
change in social life.</p>

<p>"So, my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "after
our chair had entered the Province House, it must
often have been present at balls and festivals, though
I cannot give you a description of any particular
one. But I doubt not that they were very magnificent;
and slaves in gorgeous liveries waited on the
guests, and offered them wine in goblets of massive
silver."</p>

<p>"Were there slaves in those days?" exclaimed
Clara.</p>

<p>"Yes; black slaves and white," replied Grandfather.
"Our ancestors not only bought negroes
from Africa, but Indians from South America, and
white people from Ireland. These last were sold,
not for life, but for a certain number of years, in
order to pay the expenses of their voyage across the
Atlantic. Nothing was more common than to see a
lot of likely Irish girls, advertised for sale in the
newspapers. As for the little negro babies, they
were offered to be given away, like young kittens."</p>

<p>"Perhaps Alice would have liked one to play
with, instead of her doll," said Charley, laughing.
<pb n="119" />
<anchor id="Pg119" /></p>

<p>But little Alice clasped the waxen doll closer to
her bosom.</p>

<p>"Now, as for this pretty doll, my little Alice,"
said Grandfather, "I wish you could have seen
what splendid dresses the ladies wore in those times.
They had silks, and satins, and damasks, and brocades,
and high head-dresses, and all sorts of fine
things. And they used to wear hooped-petticoats,
of such enormous size that it was quite a journey to
walk round them."</p>

<p>"And how did the gentlemen dress?" asked
Charley.</p>

<p>"With full as much magnificence as the ladies,"
answered Grandfather. "For their holiday suits,
they had coats of figured velvet, crimson, green,
blue, and all other gay colors, embroidered with
gold or silver lace. Their waistcoats, which were
five times as large as modern ones, were very
splendid. Sometimes, the whole waistcoat, which
came down almost to the knees, was made of gold
brocade."</p>

<p>"Why, the wearer must have shone like a golden
image!" said Clara.</p>

<p>"And, then," continued Grandfather, "they
wore various sorts of periwigs, such as the Tie, the
Spencer, the Brigadier, the Major, the Albemarle,
the Ramilies, the Feather-top, and the Full-bottom!
Their three-cornered hats were laced with gold or
silver. They had shining buckles at the knees of
their small clothes, and buckles likewise in their
<pb n="120" />
<anchor id="Pg120" />
shoes. They wore swords, with beautiful hilts,
either of silver, or sometimes of polished steel,
inlaid with gold."</p>

<p>"Oh, I should like to wear a sword!" cried
Charley.</p>

<p>"And an embroidered crimson velvet coat," said
Clara, laughing, "and a gold brocade waistcoat
down to your knees!"</p>

<p>"And knee-buckles and shoe-buckles," said Laurence,
laughing also.</p>

<p>"And a periwig," added little Alice, soberly,
not knowing what was the article of dress, which
she recommended to our friend Charley.</p>

<p>Grandfather smiled at the idea of Charley's
sturdy little figure in such a grotesque caparison.
He then went on with the history of the chair, and
told the children, that, in 1730, King George the
Second appointed Jonathan Belcher to be governor
of Massachusetts, in place of the deceased Governor
Burnet. Mr. Belcher was a native of the province,
but had spent much of his life in Europe.</p>

<p>The new governor found Grandfather's chair in
the Province House, he was struck with its noble
and stately aspect, but was of opinion, that age and
hard services had made it scarcely so fit for courtly
company, as when it stood in the Earl of Lincoln's
hall. Wherefore, as Governor Belcher was fond of
splendor, he employed a skilful artist to beautify
the chair. This was done by polishing and varnishing
it, and by gilding the carved work of the elbows,
<pb n="121" />
<anchor id="Pg121" />
and likewise the oaken flowers of the back. The
lion's head now shone like a veritable lump of gold.
Finally, Governor Belcher gave the chair a cushion
of blue damask, with a rich golden fringe.</p>

<p>"Our good old chair being thus glorified," proceeded
Grandfather, "it glittered with a great deal
more splendor than it had exhibited just a century
before, when the Lady Arbella brought it over from
England. Most people mistook it for a chair of the
latest London fashion. And this may serve for an
example, that there is almost always an old and
time-worn substance under all the glittering show
of new invention."</p>

<p>"Grandfather, I cannot see any of the gilding,"
remarked Charley, who had been examining the
chair very minutely.</p>

<p>"You will not wonder that it has been rubbed
off," replied Grandfather, "when you hear all the
adventures that have since befallen the chair.
Gilded it was; and the handsomest room in the
Province House was adorned by it."</p>

<p>There was not much to interest the children, in
what happened during the years that Governor Belcher
remained in the chair. At first, like Colonel
Shute and Governor Burnet, he was engaged in
disputing with the legislature about his salary.
But, as he found it impossible to get a fixed sum,
he finally obtained the king's leave to accept whatever
the legislature chose to give him. And thus
the people triumphed, after this long contest for the
<pb n="122" />
<anchor id="Pg122" />
privilege of expending their own money as they
saw fit.</p>

<p>The remainder of Governor Belcher's term of
office was principally taken up in endeavoring to
settle the currency. Honest John Hull's pine-tree
shillings had long ago been worn out, or lost, or
melted down again, and their place was supplied by
bills of paper or parchment, which were nominally
valued at three pence and upwards. The value of
these bills kept continually sinking, because the
real hard money could not be obtained for them.
They were a great deal worse than the old Indian
currency of clam-shells. These disorders of the
circulating medium were a source of endless plague
and perplexity to the rulers and legislators, not only
in Governor Belcher's days, but for many years
before and afterwards.</p>

<p>Finally, the people suspected that Governor Belcher
was secretly endeavoring to establish the Episcopal
mode of worship in the provinces. There was
enough of the old Puritan spirit remaining, to cause
most of the true sons of New England to look with
horror upon such an attempt. Great exertions
were made, to induce the king to remove the governor.
Accordingly, in 1740, he was compelled to
resign his office, and Grandfather's chair into the
bargain, to Mr. Shirley.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="123" />
<anchor id="Pg123" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VIII</head>

<p>"William Shirley," said Grandfather, "had
come from England a few years before, and begun
to practise law in Boston. You will think, perhaps,
that, as he had been a lawyer, the new governor
used to sit in our great chair, reading heavy law-books
from morning till night. On the contrary,
he was as stirring and active a governor as Massachusetts
ever had. Even Sir William Phips hardly
equalled him. The first year or two of his administration
was spent in trying to regulate the currency.
But, in 1744, after a peace of more than thirty
years, war broke out between France and England."</p>

<p>"And I suppose," said Charley, "the governor
went to take Canada."</p>

<p>"Not exactly, Charley," said Grandfather,
"though you have made a pretty shrewd conjecture.
He planned, in 1745, an expedition against
Louisbourg. This was a fortified city, on the
Island of Cape Breton, near Nova Scotia. Its
walls were of immense height and strength, and
were defended by hundreds of heavy cannon. It
was the strongest fortress which the French possessed
in America; and if the king of France had
<pb n="124" />
<anchor id="Pg124" />
guessed Governor Shirley's intentions, he would
have sent all the ships he could muster, to protect
it."</p>

<p>As the siege of Louisbourg was one of the most
remarkable events that ever the inhabitants of New
England were engaged in, Grandfather endeavored
to give his auditors a lively idea of the spirit with
which they set about it. We shall call his description</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE PROVINCIAL MUSTER</head>

<p>The expedition against Louisbourg first began to
be thought of in the month of January. From that
time, the governor's chair was continually surrounded
by counsellors, representatives, clergymen,
captains, pilots, and all manner of people, with
whom he consulted about this wonderful project.</p>

<p>First of all, it was necessary to provide men and
arms. The legislature immediately sent out a huge
quantity of paper money, with which, as if by magic
spell, the governor hoped to get possession of all
the old cannon, powder and balls, rusty swords and
muskets, and every thing else that would be serviceable
in killing Frenchmen. Drums were beaten in
all the villages of Massachusetts, to enlist soldiers for
the service. Messages were sent to the other governors
of New England, and to New York and Pennsylvania,
entreating them to unite in this crusade
against the French. All these provinces agreed to
give what assistance they could.
<pb n="125" />
<anchor id="Pg125" /></p>

<p>But there was one very important thing to be
decided. Who shall be the General of this great
army? Peace had continued such an unusual
length of time, that there was now less military
experience among the colonists, than at any former
period. The old Puritans had always kept their
weapons bright, and were never destitute of warlike
captains, who were skilful in assault or defence.
But the swords of their descendants had grown
rusty by disuse. There was nobody in New England
that knew any thing about sieges, or any
other regular fighting. The only persons, at all acquainted
with warlike business, were a few elderly
men, who had hunted Indians through the underbrush
of the forest, in old Governor Dummer's war.</p>

<p>In this dilemma, Governor Shirley fixed upon a
wealthy merchant, named William Pepperell, who
was pretty well known and liked among the people.
As to military skill, he had no more of it than his
neighbors. But, as the governor urged him very
pressingly, Mr. Pepperell consented to shut up his
leger, gird on a sword, and assume the title of
General.</p>

<p>Meantime, what a hubbub was raised by this
scheme! Rub-a-dub-dub! Rub-a-dub-dub! The rattle
of drums, beaten out of all manner of time, was
heard above every other sound.</p>

<p>Nothing now was so valuable as arms, of whatever
style and fashion they might be. The bellows blew,
and the hammer clanged continually upon the anvil,
<pb n="126" />
<anchor id="Pg126" />
while the blacksmiths were repairing the broken
weapons of other wars. Doubtless, some of the soldiers
lugged out those enormous, heavy muskets,
which used to be fired with rests, in the time of the
early Puritans. Great horse-pistols, too, were found,
which would go off with a bang like a cannon. Old
cannon, with touch-holes almost as big as their muzzles,
were looked upon as inestimable treasures.
Pikes, which perhaps, had been handled by Miles
Standish's soldiers, now made their appearance
again. Many a young man ransacked the garret,
and brought forth his great-grandfather's sword, corroded
with rust, and stained with the blood of King
Philip's war.</p>

<p>Never had there been seen such an arming as this,
when a people, so long peaceful, rose to the war,
with the best weapons that they could lay their
hands upon. And still the drums were heard&#8212;Rub-a-dub-dub!
Rub-a-dub-dub!&#8212;in all the towns
and villages; and louder and more numerous grew
the trampling footsteps of the recruits that marched
behind.</p>

<p>And now the army began to gather into Boston.
Tall, lanky, awkward, fellows, came in squads, and
companies, and regiments, swaggering along, dressed
in their brown homespun clothes and blue yarn stockings.
They stooped, as if they still had hold of the
plough-handles, and marched without any time or
tune. Hither they came, from the corn-fields, from
the clearing in the forest, from the blacksmith's
<pb n="127" />
<anchor id="Pg127" />
forge, from the carpenter's workshop, and from the
shoemaker's seat. They were an army of rough
faces and sturdy frames. A trained officer of Europe
would have laughed at them, till his sides had
ached. But there was a spirit in their bosoms,
which is more essential to soldiership than to wear
red coats, and march in stately ranks to the sound
of regular music.</p>

<p>Still was heard the beat of the drum&#8212;rub-a-dub-dub!&#8212;and
now a host of three or four thousand
men had found their way to Boston. Little quiet
was there then! Forth scampered the school-boys,
shouting behind the drums. The whole town&#8212;the
whole land&#8212;was on fire with war.</p>

<p>After the arrival of the troops, they were probably
reviewed upon the Common. We may imagine
Governor Shirley and General Pepperell riding
slowly along the line, while the drummers beat
strange old tunes, like psalm-tunes, and all the officers
and soldiers put on their most warlike looks. It
would have been a terrible sight for the Frenchmen,
could they but have witnessed it!</p>

<p>At length, on the twenty-fourth of March, 1745,
the army gave a parting shout, and set sail from
Boston in ten or twelve vessels, which had been
hired by the governor. A few days afterwards, an
English fleet, commanded by Commodore Peter
Warren, sailed also for Louisbourg, to assist the
provincial army. So, now, after all this bustle of
preparation, the town and province were left in stillness
and repose.
<pb n="128" />
<anchor id="Pg128" /></p>

<p>But, stillness and repose, at such a time of anxious
expectation, are hard to bear. The hearts of
the old people and women sunk within them, when
they reflected what perils they had sent their sons,
and husbands, and brothers, to encounter. The
boys loitered heavily to school, missing the rub-a-dub-dub,
and the trampling march, in the rear of
which they had so lately run and shouted. All the
ministers prayed earnestly, in their pulpits, for a
blessing on the army of New England. In every
family, when the good man lifted up his heart in
domestic worship, the burthen of his petition was
for the safety of those dear ones, who were fighting
under the walls of Louisbourg.</p>

<p>Governor Shirley, all this time, was probably in
an ecstasy of impatience. He could not sit still a
moment. He found no quiet, not even in Grandfather's
chair, but hurried to-and-fro, and up and
down the staircase of the Province House. Now,
he mounted to the cupola, and looked sea-ward,
straining his eyes to discover if there were a sail
upon the horizon. Now, he hastened down the
stairs, and stood beneath the portal, on the red freestone
steps, to receive some mud-bespattered courtier,
from whom he hoped to hear tidings of the
army.</p>

<p>A few weeks after the departure of the troops,
Commodore Warren sent a small vessel to Boston,
with two French prisoners. One of them was Monsieur
Bouladrie, who had been commander of a battery,
<pb n="129" />
<anchor id="Pg129" />
outside of the walls of Louisbourg. The other
was the Marquis de la Maison Forte, captain of a
French frigate, which had been taken by Commodore
Warren's fleet. These prisoners assured Governor
Shirley, that the fortifications of Louisbourg
were far too strong ever to be stormed by the provincial
army.</p>

<p>Day after day, and week after week, went on.
The people grew almost heart-sick with anxiety;
for the flower of the country was at peril in this
adventurous expedition. It was now day-break, on
the morning of the third of July.</p>

<p>But, hark! what sound is this? The hurried
clang of a bell! There is the Old North, pealing
suddenly out!&#8212;there, the Old South strikes in!&#8212;now,
the peal comes from the church in Brattle
street!&#8212;the bells of nine or ten steeples are all
flinging their iron voices, at once, upon the morning
breeze! Is it joy or alarm? There goes the roar
of a cannon, too! A royal salute is thundered
forth. And, now, we hear the loud exulting shout
of a multitude, assembled in the street. Huzza,
Huzza! Louisbourg has surrendered! Huzza!</p>

<lb />

<p>"O Grandfather, how glad I should have been
to live in those times!" cried Charley. "And
what reward did the king give to General Pepperell
and Governor Shirley?"
<pb n="130" />
<anchor id="Pg130" /></p>

<p>"He made Pepperell a baronet; so that he was
now to be called Sir William Pepperell," replied
Grandfather. "He likewise appointed both Pepperell
and Shirley to be colonels in the royal army.
These rewards, and higher ones, were well deserved;
for this was the greatest triumph that the English
met with, in the whole course of that war. General
Pepperell became a man of great fame. I have
seen a full length portrait of him, representing him
in a splendid scarlet uniform, standing before the
walls of Louisbourg, while several bombs are falling
through the air."</p>

<p>"But, did the country gain any real good by the
conquest of Louisbourg?" asked Laurence. "Or
was all the benefit reaped by Pepperell and Shirley?"</p>

<p>"The English Parliament," said Grandfather,
"agreed to pay the colonists for all the expenses of
the siege. Accordingly, in 1749, two hundred and
fifteen chests of Spanish dollars, and one hundred
casks of copper coin, were brought from England to
Boston. The whole amount was about a million of
dollars. Twenty-seven carts and trucks carried this
money from the wharf to the provincial treasury.
Was not this a pretty liberal reward?"</p>

<p>"The mothers of the young men, who were killed
at the siege of Louisbourg, would not have thought
it so," said Laurence.</p>

<p>"No, Laurence," rejoined Grandfather; "and
every warlike achievement involves an amount of
physical and moral evil, for which all the gold in the
<pb n="131" />
<anchor id="Pg131" />
Spanish mines would not be the slightest recompense.
But, we are to consider that this siege was one of
the occasions, on which the colonists tested their
ability for war, and thus were prepared for the great
contest of the Revolution. In that point of view, the
valor of our forefathers was its own reward."</p>

<p>Grandfather went on to say, that the success of
the expedition against Louisbourg, induced Shirley
and Pepperell to form a scheme for conquering Canada.
This plan, however, was not carried into execution.</p>

<p>In the year 1746, great terror was excited by the
arrival of a formidable French fleet upon the coast.
It was commanded by the Duke d'Anville, and consisted
of forty ships of war, besides vessels with soldiers
on board. With this force, the French intended
to retake Louisbourg, and afterwards to ravage the
whole of New England. Many people were ready
to give up the country for lost.</p>

<p>But the hostile fleet met with so many disasters
and losses, by storm and shipwreck, that the Duke
d'Anville is said to have poisoned himself in despair.
The officer next in command threw himself upon his
sword and perished. Thus deprived of their commanders,
the remainder of the ships returned to
France. This was as great a deliverance for New
England, as that which old England had experienced
in the days of Queen Elizabeth, when the Spanish
Armada was wrecked upon her coast.</p>

<p>"In 1747," proceeded Grandfather, "Governor
<pb n="132" />
<anchor id="Pg132" />
Shirley was driven from the Province House, not by
a hostile fleet and army, but by a mob of the Boston
people. They were so incensed at the conduct of
the British Commodore Knowles, who had impressed
some of their fellow-citizens, that several thousands
of them surrounded the council-chamber, and threw
stones and brick-bats into the windows. The governor
attempted to pacify them; but, not succeeding,
he thought it necessary to leave the town, and take
refuge within the walls of Castle William. Quiet
was not restored, until Commodore Knowles had
sent back the impressed men. This affair was a
flash of spirit, that might have warned the English
not to venture upon any oppressive measures against
their colonial brethren."</p>

<p>Peace being declared between France and England
in 1748, the governor had now an opportunity
to sit at his ease in Grandfather's chair. Such repose,
however, appears not to have suited his disposition;
for, in the following year, he went to England,
and thence was dispatched to France, on public business.
Meanwhile, as Shirley had not resigned his
office, Lieutenant-Governor Phips acted as chief
magistrate in his stead.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<pb n="133" />
<anchor id="Pg133" />
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IX</head>

<p>In the early twilight of Thanksgiving eve, came
Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, and little Alice,
hand in hand, and stood in a semi-circle round Grandfather's
chair. They had been joyous, throughout
that day of festivity, mingling together in all kinds
of play, so that the house had echoed with their airy
mirth.</p>

<p>Grandfather, too, had been happy, though not
mirthful. He felt that this was to be set down as
one of the good Thanksgivings of his life. In truth,
all his former Thanksgivings had borne their part in
the present one; for, his years of infancy, and youth,
and manhood with their blessings and their griefs,
had flitted before him, while he sat silently in the
great chair. Vanished scenes had been pictured in
the air. The forms of departed friends had visited
him. Voices, to be heard no more on earth, had
sent an echo from the infinite and the eternal.
These shadows, if such they were, seemed almost as
real to him, as what was actually present&#8212;as the
merry shouts and laughter of the children&#8212;as their
figures, dancing like sunshine before his eyes.</p>

<p>He felt that the past was not taken from him.
The happiness of former days was a possession forever.
And there was something in the mingled
<pb n="134" />
<anchor id="Pg134" />
sorrow of his lifetime, that became akin to happiness,
after being long treasured in the depths of his heart.
There it underwent a change, and grew more precious
than pure gold.</p>

<p>And now came the children, somewhat aweary with
their wild play, and sought the quiet enjoyment of
Grandfather's talk. The good old gentleman rubbed
his eyes, and smiled round upon them all. He was
glad, as most aged people are, to find that he was
yet of consequence, and could give pleasure to the
world. After being so merry, all day long, did
these children desire to hear his sober talk? Oh,
then, old Grandfather had yet a place to fill among
living men,&#8212;or at least among boys and girls!</p>

<p>"Begin quick, Grandfather," cried little Alice;
"for Pussy wants to hear you."</p>

<p>And, truly, our yellow friend, the cat, lay upon
the hearth rug, basking in the warmth of the fire,
pricking up her ears, and turning her head from the
children to Grandfather, and from Grandfather to
the children, as if she felt herself very sympathetic
with them all. A loud purr, like the singing of a
tea-kettle, or the hum of a spinning-wheel, testified
that she was as comfortable and happy as a cat could
be. For Puss had feasted, and therefore, like Grandfather
and the children, had kept a good Thanksgiving.</p>

<p>"Does Pussy want to hear me?" said Grandfather,
smiling. "Well; we must please Pussy, if
we can!"
<pb n="135" />
<anchor id="Pg135" /></p>

<p>And so he took up the history of the chair, from
the epoch of the peace of 1748. By one of the
provisions of the treaty, Louisbourg, which the New
Englanders had been at so much pains to take, was
restored to the king of France.</p>

<p>The French were afraid, that, unless their colonies
should be better defended than heretofore,
another war might deprive them of the whole. Almost
as soon as peace was declared, therefore, they
began to build strong fortifications in the interior of
North America. It was strange to behold these
warlike castles, on the banks of solitary lakes, and
far in the midst of woods. The Indian, paddling
his birch-canoe on Lake Champlain, looked up at the
high ramparts of Ticonderoga, stone piled on stone,
bristling with cannon, and the white flag of France
floating above. There were similar fortifications on
Lake Ontario, and near the great Falls of Niagara,
and at the sources of the Ohio River. And all
around these forts and castles lay the eternal
forest; and the roll of the drum died away in those
deep solitudes.</p>

<p>The truth was, that the French intended to build
forts, all the way from Canada to Louisiana. They
would then have had a wall of military strength,
at the back of the English settlements, so as completely
to hem them in. The king of England
considered the building of these forts as a sufficient
cause of war, which was accordingly commenced in
1754.
<pb n="136" />
<anchor id="Pg136" /></p>

<p>"Governor Shirley," said Grandfather, "had returned
to Boston in 1753. While in Paris, he had
married a second wife, a young French girl, and
now brought her to the Province House. But, when
war was breaking out, it was impossible for such a
bustling man to stay quietly at home, sitting in our
old chair, with his wife and children round about him.
He therefore obtained a command in the English
forces."</p>

<p>"And what did Sir William Pepperell do?"
asked Charley.</p>

<p>"He staid at home," said Grandfather, "and was
general of the militia. The veteran regiments of the
English army, which were now sent across the Atlantic,
would have scorned to fight under the orders
of an old American merchant. And now began what
aged people call the Old French War. It would be
going too far astray from the history of our chair, to
tell you one half of the battles that were fought. I
cannot even allow myself to describe the bloody defeat
of General Braddock, near the sources of the
Ohio River, in 1755. But, I must not omit to mention,
that when the English general was mortally
wounded, and his army routed, the remains of it
were preserved by the skill and valor of <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">George
Washington</hi>."</p>

<p>At the mention of this illustrious name, the children
started, as if a sudden sunlight had gleamed
upon the history of their country, now that the
great Deliverer had arisen above the horizon.
<pb n="137" />
<anchor id="Pg137" /></p>

<p>Among all the events of the Old French War,
Grandfather thought that there was none more interesting
than the removal of the inhabitants of Acadia.
From the first settlement of this ancient province of
the French, in 1604, until the present time, its people
could scarcely ever know what kingdom held
dominion over them. They were a peaceful race,
taking no delight in warfare, and caring nothing for
military renown. And yet, in every war, their
region was infested with iron-hearted soldiers, both
French and English, who fought one another for the
privilege of ill treating these poor harmless Acadians.
Sometimes the treaty of peace made them
subjects of one king, sometimes of another.</p>

<p>At the peace of 1748, Acadia had been ceded to
England. But the French still claimed a large
portion of it, and built forts for its defence. In
1755, these forts were taken, and the whole of
Acadia was conquered, by three thousand men from
Massachusetts, under the command of General Winslow.
The inhabitants were accused of supplying
the French with provisions, and of doing other
things that violated their neutrality.</p>

<p>"These accusations were probably true," observed
Grandfather; "for the Acadians were descended
from the French, and had the same friendly
feelings towards them, that the people of Massachusetts
had for the English. But their punishment
was severe. The English determined to tear these
poor people from their native homes and scatter
them abroad."</p>

<p>The Acadians were about seven thousand in number.
A considerable part of them were made prisoners,
and transported to the English colonies. All
their dwellings and churches were burnt, their cattle
were killed, and the whole country was laid
waste, so that none of them might find shelter or
food in their old homes, after the departure of the
English. One thousand of the prisoners were sent
to Massachusetts; and Grandfather allowed his
fancy to follow them thither, and tried to give his
auditors an idea of their situation.</p>

<p>We shall call this passage the story of</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE ACADIAN EXILES</head>

<p>A sad day it was for the poor Acadians, when
the armed soldiers drove them, at the point of the
bayonet, down to the sea-shore. Very sad were
they, likewise, while tossing upon the ocean, in the
crowded transport vessels. But, methinks, it must
have been sadder still, when they were landed on
the Long Wharf, in Boston, and left to themselves,
on a foreign strand.</p>

<p>Then, probably, they huddled together, and
looked into one another's faces for the comfort
which was not there. Hitherto, they had been confined
on board of separate vessels, so that they
could not tell whether their relatives and friends
were prisoners along with them. But, now, at
least, they could tell that many had been left behind,
or transported to other regions.</p>

<p>Now, a desolate wife might be heard calling for
her husband. He, alas! had gone, she knew not
whither, or perhaps had fled into the woods of Acadia,
and had now returned to weep over the ashes
of their dwelling. An aged widow was crying out,
in a querulous, lamentable tone, for her son, whose
affectionate toil had supported her for many a year.
He was not in the crowd of exiles; and what could
this aged widow do but sink down and die? Young
men and maidens, whose hearts had been torn asunder
by separation, had hoped, during the voyage,
to meet their beloved ones at its close. Now, they
began to feel that they were separated forever.
And, perhaps, a lonesome little girl, a golden-haired
child of five years old, the very picture of our little
Alice, was weeping and wailing for her mother, and
found not a soul to give her a kind word.</p>

<p>Oh, how many broken bonds of affection were
here! Country lost!&#8212;friends lost!&#8212;their rural
wealth of cottage, field, and herds, all lost together!
Every tie between these poor exiles and the world
seemed to be cut off at once. They must have
regretted that they had not died before their exile;
for even the English would not have been so pitiless
as to deny them graves in their native soil. The
dead were happy; for they were not exiles!</p>

<p>While they thus stood upon the wharf, the curiosity
and inquisitiveness of the New England people
would naturally lead them into the midst of the
poor Acadians. Prying busy-bodies thrust their
heads into the circle, wherever two or three of the
exiles were conversing together. How puzzled did
they look, at the outlandish sound of the French
tongue! There were seen the New England
women, too. They had just come out of their warm,
safe homes, where every thing was regular and comfortable,
and where their husbands and children
would be with them at night-fall. Surely, they
could pity the wretched wives and mothers of Acadia!
Or, did the sign of the cross, which the Acadians
continually made upon their breasts, and
which was abhorred by the descendants of the Puritans&#8212;did
that sign exclude all pity?</p>

<p>Among the spectators, too, was the noisy brood
of Boston school-boys, who came running, with
laughter and shouts, to gaze at this crowd of oddly
dressed foreigners. At first they danced and capered
around them, full of merriment and mischief.
But the despair of the Acadians soon had its effect
upon these thoughtless lads, and melted them into
tearful sympathy.</p>

<p>At a little distance from the throng, might be
seen the wealthy and pompous merchants, whose
warehouses stood on Long Wharf. It was difficult
to touch these rich men's hearts; for they had all
the comforts of the world at their command; and
when they walked abroad, their feelings were seldom
moved, except by the roughness of the pavement,
irritating their gouty toes. Leaning upon
their gold-headed canes, they watched the scene
with an aspect of composure. But, let us hope,
they distributed some of their superfluous coin
among these hapless exiles, to purchase food and a
night's lodging.</p>

<p>After standing a long time at the end of the
wharf, gazing seaward, as if to catch a glimpse of
their lost Acadia, the strangers began to stray into
the town.</p>

<p>They went, we will suppose, in parties and groups,
here a hundred, there a score, there ten, there
three or four, who possessed some bond of unity
among themselves. Here and there was one, who,
utterly desolate, stole away by himself, seeking no
companionship.</p>

<p>Whither did they go? I imagine them wandering
about the streets, telling the town's-people, in
outlandish, unintelligible words, that no earthly
affliction ever equalled what had befallen them.
Man's brotherhood with man was sufficient to make
the New Englanders understand this language.
The strangers wanted food. Some of them sought
hospitality at the doors of the stately mansions,
which then stood in the vicinity of Hanover Street
and the North Square. Others were applicants at
the humble wooden tenements, where dwelt the
petty shop-keepers and mechanics. Pray Heaven,
that no family in Boston turned one of these poor
exiles from their door! It would be a reproach
upon New England&#8212;a crime worthy of heavy
retribution&#8212;if the aged women and children, or
even the strong men, were allowed to feel the pinch
of hunger.</p>

<p>Perhaps some of the Acadians, in their aimless
wanderings through the town, found themselves near
a large brick edifice, which was fenced in from the
street by an iron railing, wrought with fantastic
figures. They saw a flight of red freestone steps,
ascending to a portal, above which was a balcony
and balustrade. Misery and desolation give men
the right of free passage everywhere. Let us suppose,
then, that they mounted the flight of steps,
and passed into the Province House. Making their
way into one of the apartments, they beheld a richly
clad gentleman, seated in a stately chair, with gilding
upon the carved work of its back, and a gilded
lion's head at the summit. This was Governor
Shirley, meditating upon matters of war and state,
in Grandfather's chair!</p>

<p>If such an incident did happen, Shirley, reflecting
what a ruin of peaceful and humble hopes had
been wrought by the cold policy of the statesman,
and the iron hand of the warrior, might have drawn
a deep moral from it. It should have taught him
that the poor man's hearth is sacred, and that
armies and nations have no right to violate it. It
should have made him feel, that England's triumph,
and increased dominion, could not compensate to
mankind, nor atone to Heaven, for the ashes of a
single Acadian cottage. But it is not thus that
statesmen and warriors moralize.</p>

<p>"Grandfather," cried Laurence, with emotion
trembling in his voice, "did iron-hearted War itself
ever do so hard and cruel a thing as this before?"</p>

<p>"You have rend in history, Laurence, of whole
regions wantonly laid waste," said Grandfather.
"In the removal of the Acadians, the troops were
guilty of no cruelty or outrage, except what was
inseparable from the measure."</p>

<p>Little Alice, whose eyes had, all along, been brimming
full of tears, now burst forth a-sobbing; for
Grandfather had touched her sympathies more than
he intended.</p>

<p>"To think of a whole people, homeless in the
world!" said Clara, with moistened eyes. "There
never was any thing so sad!"</p>

<p>"It was their own fault," cried Charley, energetically.
"Why did not they fight for the country
where they were born? Then, if the worst had
happened to them they could only have been killed
and buried there. They would not have been exiles
then!"</p>

<p>"Certainly, their lot was as hard as death," said
Grandfather. "All that could be done for them, in
the English provinces, was to send them to the alms-houses,
or bind them out to task-masters. And this
was the fate of persons, who had possessed a comfortable
property in their native country. Some of
them found means to embark for France; but though
it was the land of their forefathers, it must have been
a foreign land to them. Those, who remained behind,
always cherished a belief, that the king of
France would never make peace with England, till
his poor Acadians were restored their country and
their homes."</p>

<p>"And did he?" inquired Clara.</p>

<p>"Alas, my dear Clara," said Grandfather, "it
is improbable that the slightest whisper of the woes
of Acadia ever reached the ears of Louis the Fifteenth.
The exiles grew old in the British provinces,
and never saw Acadia again. Their descendants
remain among us, to this day. They have forgotten
the language of their ancestors, and probably retain
no tradition of their misfortunes. But, methinks, if
I were an American poet, I would choose Acadia
for the subject of my song."</p>

<p>Since Grandfather first spoke these words, the
most famous of American poets has drawn sweet
tears from all of us, by his beautiful poem of Evangeline.</p>

<p>And now, having thrown a gentle gloom around
the Thanksgiving fire-side, by a story that made the
children feel the blessing of a secure and peaceful
hearth, Grandfather put off the other events of the
Old French War till the next evening.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter X</head>

<p>In the twilight of the succeeding eve, when the
red beams of the fire were dancing upon the wall,
the children besought Grandfather to tell them what
had next happened to the old chair.</p>

<p>"Our chair," said Grandfather, "stood all this
time in the Province House. But, Governor Shirley
had seldom an opportunity to repose within its
arms. He was loading his troops through the forest,
or sailing in a flat-boat on Lake Ontario, or sleeping
in his tent, while the awful cataract of Niagara sent
its roar through his dreams. At one period, in the
early part of the war, Shirley had the chief command
of all the king's forces in America."</p>

<p>"Did his young wife go with him to the war?"
asked Clara.</p>

<p>"I rather imagine," replied Grandfather, "that
she remained in Boston. This lady, I suppose, had
our chair all to herself, and used to sit in it, during
those brief intervals when a young French woman
can be quiet enough to sit in a chair. The people
of Massachusetts were never fond of Governor Shirley's
young French wife. They had a suspicion that
she betrayed the military plans of the English to the
generals of the French armies."</p>

<p>"And was it true?" inquired Clara.</p>

<p>"Probably not," said Grandfather. "But the
mere suspicion did Shirley a great deal of harm.
Partly, perhaps, for this reason, but much more on
account of his inefficiency as a general, he was deprived
of his command, in 1756, and recalled to
England. He never afterwards made any figure in
public life."</p>

<p>As Grandfather's chair had no locomotive properties,
and did not even run on castors, it cannot be
supposed to have marched in person to the Old
French War. But Grandfather delayed its momentous
history, while he touched briefly upon some of
the bloody battles, sieges, and onslaughts, the tidings
of which kept continually coming to the ears of the
old inhabitants of Boston. The woods of the north
were populous with fighting men. All the Indian
tribes uplifted their tomahawks, and took part either
with the French or English. The rattle of musketry
and roar of cannon disturbed the ancient quiet of the
forest, and actually drove the bears and other wild
beasts to the more cultivated portion of the country
in the vicinity of the sea-ports. The children felt as
if they were transported back to those forgotten
times, and that the couriers from the army, with the
news of a battle lost or won, might even now be
heard galloping through the streets. Grandfather
told them about the battle of Lake George, in 1755,
when the gallant Colonel Williams, a Massachusetts
officer, was slain, with many of his countrymen.
But General Johnson and General Lyman, with their
army, drove back the enemy, and mortally wounded
the French leader, who was called the Baron Dieskau.
A gold watch, pilfered from the poor Baron, is still
in existence, and still marks each moment of time,
without complaining of weariness, although its hands
have been in motion ever since the hour of battle.</p>

<p>In the first years of the war, there were many
disasters on the English side. Among these was
the loss of Fort Oswego, in 1756, and of Fort William
Henry, in the following year. But the greatest
misfortune that befell the English, during the whole
war, was the repulse of General Abercrombie, with
his army, from the ramparts of Ticonderoga, in
1758. He attempted to storm the walls; but a
terrible conflict ensued, in which more than two
thousand Englishmen and New Englanders were
killed or wounded. The slain soldiers now lie buried
around that ancient fortress. When the plough
passes over the soil, it turns up here and there a
mouldering bone.</p>

<p>Up to this period, none of the English generals
had shown any military talent. Shirley, the Earl
of Loudon, and General Abercrombie, had each held
the chief command, at different times; but not one
of them had won a single important triumph for the
British arms. This ill success was not owing to the
want of means; for, in 1758, General Abercrombie
had fifty thousand soldiers under his command. But
the French general, the famous Marquis de Montcalm,
possessed a great genius for war, and had
something within him, that taught him how battles
were to be won.</p>

<p>At length, in 1759, Sir Jeffrey Amherst was appointed
commander-in-chief of all the British forces
in America. He was a man of ability, and a skilful
soldier. A plan was now formed for accomplishing
that object, which had so long been the darling wish
of the New Englanders, and which their fathers had
so many times attempted. This was the conquest
of Canada.</p>

<p>Three separate armies were to enter Canada, from
different quarters. One of the three, commanded
by General Prideaux, was to embark on Lake Ontario,
and proceed to Montreal. The second, at the
head of which was Sir Jeffrey Amherst himself, was
destined to reach the River St. Lawrence, by the
way of Lake Champlain, and then go down the river
to meet the third army. This last, led by General
Wolfe, was to enter the St. Lawrence from the sea,
and ascend the river to Quebec. It is to Wolfe and
his army that England owes one of the most splendid
triumphs, ever written in her history.</p>

<p>Grandfather described the siege of Quebec, and
told how Wolfe led his soldiers up a rugged and
lofty precipice, that rose from the shore of the river
to the plain on which the city stood. This bold adventure
was achieved in the darkness of night. At
day-break, tidings were carried to the Marquis de
Montcalm, that the English army was waiting to give
him battle on the plains of Abraham. This brave
French general ordered his drums to strike up, and
immediately marched to encounter Wolfe.</p>

<p>He marched to his own death. The battle was
the most fierce and terrible, that had ever been
fought in America. General Wolfe was at the head
of his soldiers, and while encouraging them onward,
received a mortal wound. He reclined against a
stone, in the agonies of death; but it seemed as if
his spirit could not pass away, while the fight yet
raged so doubtfully. Suddenly, a shout came pealing
across the battle-field&#8212;"They flee! they flee!"
and, for a moment, Wolfe lifted his languid head.
"Who flee?" he inquired. "The French," replied
an officer. "Then I die satisfied!" said Wolfe, and
expired in the arms of victory.</p>

<p>"If ever a warrior's death were glorious, Wolfe's
was so!" said Grandfather; and his eye kindled,
though he was a man of peaceful thoughts, and gentle
spirit. "His life-blood streamed to baptize the soil
which he had added to the dominion of Britain!
His dying breath was mingled with his army's shout
of victory!"</p>

<p>"Oh, it was a good death to die!" cried Charley,
with glistening eyes. "Was it not a good death,
Laurence?"</p>

<p>Laurence made no reply; for his heart burned
within him, as the picture of Wolfe, dying on the
blood-stained field of victory, arose to his imagination;
and yet, he had a deep inward consciousness,
that, after all, there was a truer glory than could
thus be won.</p>

<p>"There were other battles in Canada, after Wolfe's
victory," resumed Grandfather; "but we may consider
the Old French War as having terminated with
this great event. The treaty of peace, however, was
not signed until 1763. The terms of the treaty
were very disadvantageous to the French; for all
Canada, and all Acadia, and the island of Cape
Breton, in short, all the territories that France
and England had been fighting about, for nearly
a hundred years&#8212;were surrendered to the English."</p>

<p>"So, now, at last," said Laurence, "New England
had gained her wish. Canada was taken!"</p>

<p>"And now there was nobody to fight with, but
the Indians," said Charley.</p>

<p>Grandfather mentioned two other important
events. The first was the great fire of Boston,
in 1700, when the glare from nearly three hundred
buildings, all in flames at once, shone through the
windows of the Province House, and threw a fierce
lustre upon the gilded foliage and lion's head of our
old chair. The second event was the proclamation,
in the same year, of George the Third as king of
Great Britain. The blast of the trumpet sounded
from the balcony of the Town House, and awoke the
echoes far and wide, as if to challenge all mankind
to dispute King George's title.</p>

<p>Seven times, as the successive monarchs of Britain
ascended the throne, the trumpet-peal of proclamation
had been heard by those who sat in our venerable
chair. But, when the next king put on his
father's crown, no trumpet-peal proclaimed it to
New England! Long before that day, America had
shaken off the royal government.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter XI</head>

<p>Now that Grandfather had fought through the
Old French War, in which our chair made no very
distinguished figure, he thought it high time to tell
the children some of the more private history of that
praiseworthy old piece of furniture.</p>

<p>"In 1757," said Grandfather, "after Shirley
had been summoned to England, Thomas Pownall
was appointed governor of Massachusetts. He was
a gay and fashionable English gentleman, who had
spent much of his life in London, but had a considerable
acquaintance with America. The new governor
appears to have taken no active part in the
war that was going on; although, at one period, he
talked of marching against the enemy, at the head
of his company of cadets. But, on the whole, he
probably concluded that it was more befitting a
governor to remain quietly in our chair, reading the
newspapers and official documents."</p>

<p>"Did the people like Pownall?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"They found no fault with him," replied Grandfather.
"It was no time to quarrel with the governor,
when the utmost harmony was required, in
order to defend the country against the French.
But Pownall did not remain long in Massachusetts.
In 1759, he was sent to be governor of South Carolina.
In thus exchanging one government for
another, I suppose he felt no regret, except at the
necessity of leaving Grandfather's chair behind
him."</p>

<p>"He might have taken it to South Carolina,"
observed Clara.</p>

<p>"It appears to me," said Laurence, giving the
rein to his fancy, "that the fate of this ancient
chair was, somehow or other, mysteriously connected
with the fortunes of old Massachusetts. If Governor
Pownall had put it aboard the vessel in which he
sailed for South Carolina, she would probably have
lain wind-bound in Boston harbor. It was ordained
that the chair should not be taken away. Don't you
think so, Grandfather?"</p>

<p>"It was kept here for Grandfather and me to sit
in together," said little Alice, "and for Grandfather
to tell stories about."</p>

<p>"And Grandfather is very glad of such a companion,
and such a theme," said the old gentleman,
with a smile. "Well, Laurence, if our oaken chair,
like the wooden Palladium of Troy, was connected
with the country's fate, yet there appears to have
been no supernatural obstacle to its removal from
the Province House. In 1760, Sir Francis Bernard,
who had been governor of New Jersey, was
appointed to the same office in Massachusetts.
He looked at the old chair, and thought it quite too
shabby to keep company with a new set of mahogany
chairs, and an aristocratic sofa, which had just arrived
from London. He therefore ordered it to be
put away in the garret."</p>

<p>The children were loud in their exclamations
against this irreverent conduct of Sir Francis Bernard.
But Grandfather defended him, as well as
he could. He observed, that it was then thirty years
since the chair had been beautified by Governor
Belcher. Most of the gilding was worn off by the
frequent scourings which it had undergone, beneath
the hands of a black slave. The damask cushion,
once so splendid, was now squeezed out of all shape,
and absolutely in tatters, so many were the ponderous
gentlemen who had deposited their weight upon
it, during these thirty years.</p>

<p>Moreover, at a council held by the Earl of Loudon
with the governors of New England, in 1757,
his lordship, in a moment of passion, had kicked over
the chair with his military boot. By this unprovoked
and unjustifiable act, our venerable friend
had suffered a fracture of one of its rungs.</p>

<p>"But," said Grandfather, "our chair, after all,
was not destined to spend the remainder of its days
in the inglorious obscurity of a garret. Thomas
Hutchinson, lieutenant-governor of the province, was
told of Sir Francis Bernard's design. This gentleman
was more familiar with the history of New
England than any other man alive. He knew all
the adventures and vicissitudes through which the
old chair had passed, and could have told, as accurately
as your own Grandfather, who were the personages
that had occupied it. Often, while visiting
at the Province House, he had eyed the chair with
admiration, and felt a longing desire to become the
possessor of it. He now waited upon Sir Francis
Bernard, and easily obtained leave to carry it
home."</p>

<p>"And I hope," said Clara, "he had it varnished
and gilded anew."</p>

<p>"No," answered Grandfather. "What Mr.
Hutchinson desired was to restore the chair, as
much as possible, to its original aspect, such as it
had appeared, when it was first made out of the Earl
of Lincoln's oak-tree. For this purpose he ordered
it to be well scoured with soap and sand and polished
with wax, and then provided it with a substantial
leather cushion. When all was completed to his
mind, he sat down in the old chair, and began to
write his History of Massachusetts."</p>

<p>"Oh, that was a bright thought in Mr. Hutchinson!"
exclaimed Laurence. "And, no doubt, the
dim figures of the former possessors of the chair
flitted around him, as he wrote, and inspired him
with a knowledge of all that they had done and
suffered while on earth."</p>

<p>"Why, my dear Laurence," replied Grandfather,
smiling, "if Mr. Hutchinson was favored with any
such extraordinary inspiration, he made but a poor
use of it in his History; for a duller piece of composition
never came from any man's pen. However,
he was accurate, at least, though far from possessing
the brilliancy or philosophy of Mr. Bancroft."</p>

<p>"But, if Hutchinson knew the history of the
chair," rejoined Laurence, "his heart must have
been stirred by it."</p>

<p>"It must, indeed," said Grandfather. "It would
be entertaining and instructive, at the present day,
to imagine what were Mr. Hutchinson's thoughts, as
he looked back upon the long vista of events with
which this chair was so remarkably connected."</p>

<p>And Grandfather allowed his fancy to shape out
an image of Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson, sitting
in an evening reverie by his fireside, and meditating
on the changes that had slowly passed around the
chair.</p>

<p>A devoted monarchist, Hutchinson would heave
no sigh for the subversion of the original republican
government, the purest that the world had seen,
with which the colony began its existence. While
reverencing the grim and stern old Puritans as the
founders of his native land, he would not wish to
recall them from their graves, nor to awaken again
that king-resisting spirit, which he imagined to be
laid asleep with them forever. Winthrop, Dudley,
Bellingham, Endicott, Leverett, and Bradstreet!
All these had had their day. Ages might come and
go, but never again would the people's suffrages
place a republican governor in their ancient Chair
of State!</p>

<p>Coming down to the epoch of the second charter,
Hutchinson thought of the ship-carpenter Phips,
springing from the lowest of the people, and attaining
to the loftiest station in the land. But, he
smiled to perceive that this governor's example
would awaken no turbulent ambition in the lower
orders, for it was a king's gracious boon alone that
made the ship-carpenter a ruler. Hutchinson rejoiced
to mark the gradual growth of an aristocratic
class, to whom the common people, as in duty bound,
were learning humbly to resign the honors, emoluments,
and authority of state. He saw,&#8212;or else
deceived himself&#8212;that, throughout this epoch, the
people's disposition to self-government had been
growing weaker, through long disuse, and now existed
only as a faint traditionary feeling.</p>

<p>The Lieutenant-Governor's reverie had now come
down to the period at which he himself was sitting in
the historic chair. He endeavored to throw his
glance forward, over the coming years. There,
probably, he saw visions of hereditary rank, for himself
and other aristocratic colonists. He saw the
fertile fields of New England, portioned out among
a few great landholders, and descending by entail
from generation to generation. He saw the people
a race of tenantry, dependent on their lords. He
saw stars, garters, coronets, and castles.</p>

<p>"But," added Grandfather, turning to Laurence,
"the Lieutenant-Governor's castles were built nowhere
but among the red embers of the fire, before
which he was sitting. And, just as he had constructed
a baronial residence for himself and his posterity,
the fire rolled down upon the hearth, and
crumbled it to ashes!"</p>

<p>Grandfather now looked at his watch, which hung
within a beautiful little ebony Temple, supported by
four Ionic columns. He then laid his hand on the
golden locks of little Alice, whose head had sunk
down upon the arm of our illustrious chair.</p>

<p>"To bed, to bed, dear child!" said he. "Grandfather
has put you to sleep, already, by his stories
about these <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Famous Old People</hi>!"</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Part III</head>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter I</head>

<p>On the evening of New Year's day, Grandfather
was walking to and fro, across the carpet, listening
to the rain which beat hard against the curtained
windows. The riotous blast shook the casement, as
if a strong man were striving to force his entrance
into the comfortable room. With every puff of the
wind, the fire leaped upward from the hearth,
laughing and rejoicing at the shrieks of the wintry
storm.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Grandfather's chair stood in its customary
place by the fireside. The bright blaze
gleamed upon the fantastic figures of its oaken back,
and shone through the open-work, so that a complete
pattern was thrown upon the opposite side of
the room. Sometimes, for a moment or two, the
shadow remained immovable, as if it were painted
on the wall. Then, all at once, it began to quiver,
and leap, and dance, with a frisky motion. Anon,
seeming to remember that these antics were unworthy
of such a dignified and venerable chair, it suddenly
stood still. But soon it began to dance anew.</p>

<p>"Only see how grandfather's chair is dancing!"
cried little Alice.</p>

<p>And she ran to the wall, and tried to catch hold
of the flickering shadow; for to children of five
years old, a shadow seems almost as real as a substance.</p>

<p>"I wish," said Clara, "Grandfather would sit
down in the chair, and finish its history."</p>

<p>If the children had been looking at Grandfather,
they would have noticed that he paused in his walk
across the room, when Clara made this remark.
The kind old gentleman was ready and willing to
resume his stories of departed times. But he had
resolved to wait till his auditors should request him
to proceed, in order that they might find the instructive
history of the chair a pleasure, and not a
task.</p>

<p>"Grandfather," said Charley, "I am tired to
death of this dismal rain, and of hearing the wind
roar in the chimney. I have had no good time all
day. It would be better to hear stories about the
chair, than to sit doing nothing, and thinking of
nothing."</p>

<p>To say the truth, our friend Charley was very
much out of humor with the storm, because it had
kept him all day within doors, and hindered him from
making trial of a splendid sled, which Grandfather
had given him for a New Year's gift. As all sleds,
now-a-days, must have a name, the one in question
had been honored with the title of Grandfather's
Chair, which was painted in golden letters, on each
of the sides. Charley greatly admired the construction
of the new vehicle, and felt certain that it
would outstrip any other sled that ever dashed
adown the long slopes of the Common.</p>

<p>As for Laurence, he happened to be thinking,
just at this moment, about the history of the chair.
Kind old Grandfather had made him a present of a
volume of engraved portraits, representing the features
of eminent and famous people of all countries.
Among them Laurence found several who had formerly
occupied our chair, or been connected with
its adventures. While Grandfather walked to and
fro across the room, the imaginative boy was gazing
at the historic chair. He endeavored to summon
up the portraits which he had seen in his volume,
and to place them, like living figures, in the empty
seat.</p>

<p>"The old chair has begun another year of its
existence, to-day," said Laurence. "We must
make haste, or it will have a new history to be told
before we finish the old one."</p>

<p>"Yes, my children," replied Grandfather, with a
smile and a sigh, "another year has been added to
those of the two centuries, and upward, which have
passed since the Lady Arbella brought this chair
over from England. It is three times as old as
your Grandfather; but a year makes no impression
on its oaken frame, while it bends the old man
nearer and nearer to the earth; so let me go on
with my stories while I may."</p>

<p>Accordingly, Grandfather came to the fireside,
and seated himself in the venerable chair. The
lion's head looked down with a grimly good-natured
aspect, as the children clustered around the old
gentleman's knees. It almost seemed as if a real
lion were peeping over the back of the chair, and
smiling at the group of auditors, with a sort of lion-like
complaisance. Little Alice, whose fancy often
inspired her with singular ideas, exclaimed that the
lion's head was nodding at her, and that it looked
as if it were going to open its wide jaws and tell a
story.</p>

<p>But, as the lion's head appeared to be in no
haste to speak, and as there was no record or tradition
of its having spoken, during the whole existence
of the chair, Grandfather did not consider it
worth while to wait.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter II</head>

<p>"Charley, my boy," said Grandfather, "do
you remember who was the last occupant of the
chair?"</p>

<p>"It was Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson," answered
Charley. "Sir Francis Bernard, the new
governor, had given him the chair, instead of putting
it away in the garret of the Province House.
And when we took leave of Hutchinson, he was sitting
by his fireside, and thinking of the past adventures
of the chair, and of what was to come."</p>

<p>"Very well," said Grandfather; "and you
recollect that this was in 1763, or thereabouts, at
the close of the Old French War. Now, that you
may fully comprehend the remaining adventures of
the chair, I must make some brief remarks on the
situation and character of the New England colonies
at this period."</p>

<p>So Grandfather spoke of the earnest loyalty of
our fathers during the Old French War, and after
the conquest of Canada had brought that war to a
triumphant close.</p>

<p>The people loved and reverenced the king of
England, even more than if the ocean had not rolled
its waves between him and them; for, at the distance
of three thousand miles, they could not discover
his bad qualities and imperfections. Their
love was increased by the dangers which they had
encountered in order to heighten his glory and
extend his dominion. Throughout the war, the
American colonists had fought side by side with the
soldiers of Old England; and nearly thirty thousand
young men had laid down their lives for the
honor of King George. And the survivors loved
him the better, because they had done and suffered
so much for his sake.</p>

<p>But, there were some circumstances, that caused
America to feel more independent of England than
at an earlier period. Canada and Acadia had now
become British provinces; and our fathers were no
longer afraid of the bands of French and Indians,
who used to assault them in old times. For a century
and a half this had been the great terror of
New England. Now, the old French soldier was
driven from the north forever. And, even had it
been otherwise the English colonies were growing
so populous and powerful, that they might have felt
fully able to protect themselves without any help
from England.</p>

<p>There were thoughtful and sagacious men, who
began to doubt, whether a great country like America,
would always be content to remain under the
government of an island three thousand miles away.
This was the more doubtful, because the English
Parliament had long ago made laws which were
intended to be very beneficial to England, at the
expense of America. By these laws, the colonists
were forbidden to manufacture articles for their
own use, or to carry on trade with any nation but
the English.</p>

<p>"Now," continued Grandfather, "if King George
the Third and his counsellors had considered these
things wisely, they would have taken another course
than they did. But, when they saw how rich and
populous the colonies had grown, their first thought
was, how they might make more profit out of them
than heretofore. England was enormously in debt,
at the close of the Old French War, and it was pretended,
that this debt had been contracted for the
defence of the American colonies, and that therefore
a part of it ought to be paid by them."</p>

<p>"Why, this was nonsense," exclaimed Charley;
"did not our fathers spend their lives and their
money too, to get Canada for King George?"</p>

<p>"True, they did," said Grandfather; "and they
told the English rulers so. But the king and his
ministers would not listen to good advice. In 1765,
the British Parliament passed a Stamp Act."</p>

<p>"What was that?" inquired Charley.</p>

<p>"The Stamp Act," replied Grandfather, "was a
law by which all deeds, bonds, and other papers of
the same kind, were ordered to be marked with the
king's stamp; and without this mark, they were
declared illegal and void. Now, in order to get a
blank sheet of paper, with the king's stamp upon it,
people were obliged to pay three pence more than
the actual value of the paper. And this extra sum
of three pence was a tax, and was to be paid into
the king's treasury."</p>

<p>"I am sure three pence was not worth quarrelling
about!" remarked Clara.</p>

<p>"It was not for three pence, nor for any amount
of money, that America quarrelled with England,"
replied Grandfather; "it was for a great principle.
The colonists were determined not to be taxed,
except by their own representatives. They said
that neither the king and Parliament nor any other
power on earth, had a right to take their money out
of their pockets, unless they freely gave it. And,
rather than pay three pence when it was unjustly
demanded, they resolved to sacrifice all the wealth
of the country, and their lives along with it. They
therefore made a most stubborn resistance to the
Stamp Act."</p>

<p>"That was noble!" exclaimed Laurence. "I
understand how it was. If they had quietly paid
this tax of three pence, they would have ceased to
be freemen, and would have become tributaries of
England. And so they contended about a great
question of right and wrong, and put every thing at
stake for it."</p>

<p>"You are right, Laurence," said Grandfather;
"and it was really amazing and terrible to see what
a change came over the aspect of the people, the
moment the English Parliament had passed this
oppressive act. The former history of our chair,
my children, has given you some idea of what a
harsh, unyielding, stern set of men the old Puritans
were. For a good many years back, however, it
had seemed as if these characteristics were disappearing.
But no sooner did England offer wrong
to the colonies, than the descendants of the early
settlers proved that they had the same kind of temper
as their forefathers. The moment before, New
England appeared like an humble and loyal subject
of the crown; the next instant, she showed the
grim, dark features of an old king-resisting Puritan."</p>

<p>Grandfather spoke briefly of the public measures
that were taken in opposition to the Stamp Act.
As this law affected all the American colonies alike,
it naturally led them to think of consulting together
in order to procure its repeal. For this purpose,
the legislature of Massachusetts proposed that delegates
from every colony should meet in Congress.
Accordingly nine colonies, both northern and southern,
sent delegates to the city of New York.</p>

<p>"And did they consult about going to war with
England?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"No, Charley," answered Grandfather; "a
great deal of talking was yet to be done, before
England and America could come to blows. The
Congress stated the rights and the grievances of the
colonists. They sent an humble petition to the
king, and a memorial to the Parliament, beseeching
that the Stamp Act might be repealed. This
was all that the delegates had it in their power to
do."</p>

<p>"They might as well have staid at home, then,"
said Charley.</p>

<p>"By no means," replied Grandfather. "It was
a most important and memorable event&#8212;this first
coming together of the American people, by their
representatives from the north and south. If England
had been wise, she would have trembled at the
first word that was spoken in such an assembly!"</p>

<p>These remonstrances and petitions, as Grandfather
observed, were the work of grave, thoughtful, and
prudent men. Meantime, the young and hot-headed
people went to work in their own way. It is probable
that the petitions of Congress would have had
little or no effect on the British statesmen, if the violent
deeds of the American people had not shown
how much excited the people were. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Liberty Tree</hi>
was soon heard of in England.</p>

<p>"What was Liberty Tree?" inquired Clara.</p>

<p>"It was an old elm tree," answered Grandfather,
"which stood near the corner of Essex street, opposite
the Boylston market. Under the spreading
branches of this great tree, the people used to assemble,
whenever they wished to express their feelings
and opinions. Thus, after a while, it seemed as if
the liberty of the country was connected with Liberty
Tree."</p>

<p>"It was glorious fruit for a tree to bear,"
remarked Laurence.</p>

<p rend="text-align: center">
<figure rend="w95" url="images/image03.png"><figDesc>Image #3</figDesc></figure></p><p></p>

<p>"It bore strange fruit, sometimes," said Grandfather.
"One morning in August, 1765, two figures
were found hanging on the sturdy branches of Liberty
Tree. They were dressed in square-skirted
coats and small-clothes; and, as their wigs hung
down over their faces, they looked like real men.
One was intended to represent the Earl of Bute,
who was supposed to have advised the king to tax
America. The other was meant for the effigy of
Andrew Oliver, a gentleman belonging to one of the
most respectable families in Massachusetts."</p>

<p>"What harm had he done?" inquired Charley.</p>

<p>"The king had appointed him to be distributor of
the stamps," answered Grandfather. "Mr. Oliver
would have made a great deal of money by this
business. But the people frightened him so much
by hanging him in effigy, and afterwards by breaking
into his house, that he promised to have nothing
to do with the stamps. And all the king's friends
throughout America were compelled to make the
same promise."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter III</head>

<p>"Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson," continued
Grandfather, "now began to be unquiet in our old
chair. He had formerly been much respected and
beloved by the people, and had often proved himself
a friend to their interests. But the time was come,
when he could not be a friend to the people, without
ceasing to be a friend to the king. It was pretty
generally understood, that Hutchinson would act
according to the king's wishes, right or wrong,
like most of the other gentlemen who held offices
under the crown. Besides, as he was brother-in-law
of Andrew Oliver, the people now felt a particular
dislike to him."</p>

<p>"I should think," said Laurence, "as Mr.
Hutchinson had written the history of our Puritan
forefathers, he would have known what the temper
of the people was, and so have taken care not to
wrong them."</p>

<p>"He trusted in the might of the king of England,"
replied Grandfather, "and thought himself
safe under the shelter of the throne. If no dispute
had arisen between the king and the people, Hutchinson
would have had the character of a wise,
good, and patriotic magistrate. But, from the time
that he took part against the rights of his country,
the people's love and respect were turned to scorn
and hatred; and he never had another hour of
peace."</p>

<p>In order to show what a fierce and dangerous
spirit was now aroused among the inhabitants,
Grandfather related a passage from history, which
we shall call</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE HUTCHINSON MOB</head>

<p>On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August,
1765, a bonfire was kindled in King Street. It
flamed high upward, and threw a ruddy light over
the front of the town house, on which was displayed
a carved representation of the royal arms. The
gilded vane of the cupola glittered in the blaze.
The kindling of this bonfire was the well known
signal for the populace of Boston to assemble in the
street.</p>

<p>Before the tar-barrels, of which the bonfire was
made, were half burnt out, a great crowd had come
together. They were chiefly laborers and seafaring
men, together with many young apprentices, and all
those idle people about town who are ready for any
kind of mischief. Doubtless some school-boys were
among them.</p>

<p>While these rough figures stood round the blazing
bonfire, you might hear them speaking bitter words
against the high officers of the province. Governor
Bernard, Hutchinson, Oliver, Storey, Hallowell, and
other men whom King George delighted to honor,
were reviled as traitors to the country. Now and
then, perhaps, an officer of the crown passed along
the street, wearing the gold-laced hat, white wig,
and embroidered waistcoat, which were the fashion
of the day. But, when the people beheld him, they
set up a wild and angry howl, and their faces had
an evil aspect, which was made more terrible by the
flickering blaze of the bonfire.</p>

<p>"I should like to throw the traitor right into that
blaze!" perhaps one fierce rioter would say.</p>

<p>"Yes; and all his brethren too!" another might
reply; "and the governor and old Tommy Hutchinson
into the hottest of it!"</p>

<p>"And the Earl of Bute along with them," muttered
a third; "and burn the whole pack of them
under King George's nose! No matter if it singed
him!"</p>

<p>Some such expressions as these, either shouted
aloud, or muttered under the breath, were doubtless
heard in King Street. The mob, meanwhile, were
growing fiercer, and fiercer, and seemed ready even
to set the town on fire, for the sake of burning the
king's friends out of house and home. And yet,
angry as they were, they sometimes broke into a loud
roar of laughter, as if mischief and destruction were
their sport.</p>

<p>But we must now leave the rioters for a time, and
take a peep into the lieutenant-governor's splendid
mansion. It was a large brick house, decorated
with Ionic pilasters, and stood in Garden Court
Street, near the North Square.</p>

<p>While the angry mob in King Street were shouting
his name, Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson sat
quietly in Grandfather's chair, unsuspicious of the
evil that was about to fall upon his head. His beloved
family were in the room with him. He had
thrown off his embroidered coat and powdered wig,
and had on a loose flowing gown and purple velvet
cap. He had likewise laid aside the cares of state,
and all the thoughts that had wearied and perplexed
him throughout the day.</p>

<p>Perhaps, in the enjoyment of his home, he had
forgotten all about the Stamp Act, and scarcely remembered
that there was a king, across the ocean,
who had resolved to make tributaries of the New
Englanders. Possibly, too, he had forgotten his
own ambition, and would not have exchanged his
situation, at that moment, to be governor, or even a
lord.</p>

<p>The wax candles were now lighted, and showed a
handsome room, well provided with rich furniture.
On the walls hung the pictures of Hutchinson's ancestors,
who had been eminent men in their day, and
were honorably remembered in the history of the
country. Every object served to mark the residence
of a rich, aristocratic gentleman, who held himself
high above the common people, and could have nothing
to fear from them. In a corner of the room,
thrown carelessly upon a chair, were the scarlet
robes of the chief justice. This high office, as well
as those of lieutenant-governor, counsellor, and judge
of probate, was filled by Hutchinson.</p>

<p>Who or what could disturb the domestic quiet of
such a great and powerful personage as now sat in
Grandfather's chair.</p>

<p>The lieutenant-governor's favorite daughter sat
by his side. She leaned on the arm of our great
chair, and looked up affectionately into her father's
face, rejoicing to perceive that a quiet smile was on
his lips. But suddenly a shade came across her
countenance. She seemed to listen attentively, as
if to catch a distant sound.</p>

<p>"What is the matter, my child?" inquired
Hutchinson.</p>

<p>"Father, do not you hear a tumult in the
streets?" said she.</p>

<p>The lieutenant-governor listened. But his ears
were duller than those of his daughter; he could
hear nothing more terrible than the sound of a summer
breeze, sighing among the tops of the elm trees.</p>

<p>"No, foolish child!" he replied, playfully patting
her cheek. "There is no tumult. Our Boston
mobs are satisfied with what mischief they
have already done. The king's friends need not
tremble."</p>

<p>So Hutchinson resumed his pleasant and peaceful
meditations, and again forgot that there were any
troubles in the world. But his family were alarmed,
and could not help straining their ears to catch the
slightest sound. More and more distinctly they
heard shouts, and then the trampling of many feet.
While they were listening, one of the neighbors
rushed breathless into the room.</p>

<p>"A mob!&#8212;a terrible mob!" cried he: "they
have broken into Mr. Storey's house, and into Mr.
Hallowell's, and have made themselves drunk with
the liquors in his cellar, and now they are coming
hither, as wild as so many tigers. Flee, lieutenant-governor,
for your life! for your life!"</p>

<p>"Father, dear father, make haste!" shrieked his
children.</p>

<p>But Hutchinson would not hearken to them. He
was an old lawyer; and he could not realize that
the people would do any thing so utterly lawless as
to assault him in his peaceful home. He was one of
King George's chief officers; and it would be an insult
and outrage upon the king himself, if the lieutenant-governor
should suffer any wrong.</p>

<p>"Have no fears on my account," said he; "I
am perfectly safe. The king's name shall be my
protection."</p>

<p>Yet he bade his family retire into one of the
neighboring houses. His daughter would have remained,
but he forced her away.</p>

<p>The huzzas and riotous uproar of the mob were
now heard, close at hand. The sound was terrible,
and struck Hutchinson with the same sort of dread
as if an enraged wild beast had broken loose, and
were roaring for its prey. He crept softly to the
window. There he beheld an immense concourse
of people, filling all the street, and rolling onward to
his house. It was like a tempestuous flood, that
had swelled beyond its bounds, and would sweep
every thing before it. Hutchinson trembled; he
felt, at that moment, that the wrath of the people
was a thousand-fold more terrible than the wrath of
a king.</p>

<p>That was a moment when a loyalist and an aristocrat,
like Hutchinson, might have learned how powerless
are kings, nobles, and great men, when the
low and humble range themselves against them.
King George could do nothing for his servant now.
Had King George been there, he could have done
nothing for himself. If Hutchinson had understood
this lesson, and remembered it, he need not, in after
years, have been an exile from his native country,
nor finally have laid his bones in a distant land.</p>

<p>There was now a rush against the doors of the
house. The people sent up a hoarse cry. At this
instant, the lieutenant-governor's daughter, whom
he had supposed to be in a place of safety, ran into
the room, and threw her arms around him. She
had returned by a private entrance.</p>

<p>"Father, are you mad!" cried she. "Will the
king's name protect you now? Come with me, or
they will have your life."</p>

<p>"True," muttered Hutchinson to himself; "what
care these roarers for the name of king? I must
flee, or they will trample me down, on the door of
my own dwelling!"</p>

<p>Hurrying away, he and his daughter made their
escape by the private passage, at the moment when
the rioters broke into the house. The foremost of
them rushed up the stair-case, and entered the room
which Hutchinson had just quitted. There they beheld
our good old chair, facing them with quiet dignity,
while the lion's head seemed to move its jaws
in the unsteady light of their torches. Perhaps the
stately aspect of our venerable friend, which had
stood firm through a century and a half of trouble,
arrested them for an instant. But they were thrust
forward by those behind, and the chair lay overthrown.</p>

<p>Then began the work of destruction. The carved
and polished mahogany tables were shattered with
heavy clubs, and hewn to splinters with axes. The
marble hearths and mantel pieces were broken. The
volumes of Hutchinson's library, so precious to a
studious man, were torn out of their covers, and the
leaves sent flying out of the windows. Manuscripts,
containing secrets of our country's history, which are
now lost forever, were scattered to the winds.</p>

<p>The old ancestral portraits, whose fixed countenances
looked down on the wild scene, were rent
from the walls. The mob triumphed in their downfall
and destruction, as if these pictures of Hutchinson's
forefathers had committed the same offences as
their descendant. A tall looking-glass, which had
hitherto presented a reflection of the enraged and
drunken multitude, was now smashed into a thousand
fragments. We gladly dismiss the scene from the
mirror of our fancy.</p>

<p>Before morning dawned, the walls of the house
were all that remained. The interior was a dismal
scene of ruin. A shower pattered in at the broken
windows, and when Hutchinson and his family
returned, they stood shivering in the same room,
where the last evening had seen them so peaceful
and happy.</p>

<lb />

<p>"Grandfather," said Laurence indignantly, "if
the people acted in this manner, they were not worthy
of even so much liberty as the king of England
was willing to allow them."</p>

<p>"It was a most unjustifiable act, like many other
popular movements at that time," replied Grandfather.
"But we must not decide against the justice
of the people's cause, merely because an excited
mob was guilty of outrageous violence. Besides, all
these things were done in the first fury of resentment.
Afterwards, the people grew more calm, and
were more influenced by the counsel of those wise
and good men who conducted them safely and gloriously
through the Revolution."</p>

<p>Little Alice, with tears in her blue eyes, said that
she hoped the neighbors had not let Lieutenant-Governor
Hutchinson and his family be homeless in the
street, but had taken them into their houses, and
been kind to them. Cousin Clara, recollecting the
perilous situation of our beloved chair, inquired what
had become of it.</p>

<p>"Nothing was heard of our chair for sometime
afterwards," answered Grandfather. "One day in
September, the same Andrew Oliver, of whom I before
told you, was summoned to appear at high noon,
under Liberty Tree. This was the strangest summons
that had ever been heard of; for it was issued
in the name of the whole people, who thus took upon
themselves the authority of a sovereign power. Mr.
Oliver dared not disobey. Accordingly, at the appointed
hour, he went, much against his will, to
Liberty Tree."</p>

<p>Here Charley interposed a remark that poor Mr.
Oliver found but little liberty under Liberty Tree.
Grandfather assented.</p>

<p>"It was a stormy day," continued he. "The
equinoctial gale blew violently, and scattered the yellow
leaves of Liberty Tree all along the street. Mr.
Oliver's wig was dripping with water-drops, and he
probably looked haggard, disconsolate, and humbled
to the earth. Beneath the tree, in Grandfather's
chair,&#8212;our own venerable chair,&#8212;sat Mr. Richard
Dana, a justice of the peace. He administered an
oath to Mr. Oliver, that he would never have any
thing to do with distributing the stamps. A vast
concourse of people heard the oath, and shouted
when it was taken."</p>

<p>"There is something grand in this," said Laurence.
"I like it, because the people seem to have
acted with thoughtfulness and dignity; and this
proud gentleman, one of his Majesty's high officers,
was made to feel that King George could not protect
him in doing wrong."</p>

<p>"But it was a sad day for poor Mr. Oliver," observed
Grandfather. "From his youth upward, it
had probably been the great principle of his life, to
be faithful and obedient to the king. And now, in
his old age, it must have puzzled and distracted him,
to find the sovereign people setting up a claim to his
faith and obedience."</p>

<p>Grandfather closed the evening's conversation by
saying that the discontent of America was so great,
that, in 1766, the British Parliament was compelled
to repeal the Stamp Act. The people made great
rejoicings, but took care to keep Liberty Tree well
pruned, and free from caterpillars and canker worms.
They foresaw, that there might yet be occasion for
them to assemble under its far projecting shadow.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IV</head>

<p>The next evening, Clara, who remembered that
our chair had been left standing in the rain, under
Liberty Tree, earnestly besought Grandfather to tell
when and where it had next found shelter. Perhaps
she was afraid that the venerable chair, by being
exposed to the inclemency of a September gale,
might get the rheumatism in its aged joints.</p>

<p>"The chair," said Grandfather, "after the ceremony
of Mr. Oliver's oath, appears to have been
quite forgotten by the multitude. Indeed, being
much bruised and rather rickety, owing to the violent
treatment it had suffered from the Hutchinson
mob, most people would have thought that its days
of usefulness were over. Nevertheless, it was conveyed
away, under cover of the night, and committed
to the care of a skilful joiner. He doctored our old
friend so successfully, that, in the course of a few
days, it made its appearance in the public room of
the British Coffee House in King Street."</p>

<p>"But why did not Mr. Hutchinson get possession
of it again?" inquired Charley.</p>

<p>"I know not," answered Grandfather, "unless
he considered it a dishonor and disgrace to the chair
to have stood under Liberty Tree. At all events,
he suffered it to remain at the British Coffee House,
which was the principal hotel in Boston. It could
not possibly have found a situation, where it would
be more in the midst of business and bustle, or would
witness more important events, or be occupied by a
greater variety of persons."</p>

<p>Grandfather went on to tell the proceedings of the
despotic king and ministry of England, after the repeal
of the Stamp Act. They could not bear to
think, that their right to tax America should be
disputed by the people. In the year 1767, therefore,
they caused Parliament to pass an act for laying
a duty on tea, and some other articles that were in
general use. Nobody could now buy a pound of tea,
without paying a tax to King George. This scheme
was pretty craftily contrived; for the women of
America were very fond of tea, and did not like to
give up the use of it.</p>

<p>But the people were as much opposed to this new
act of Parliament, as they had been to the Stamp
Act. England, however, was determined that they
should submit. In order to compel their obedience,
two regiments, consisting of more than seven hundred
British soldiers, were sent to Boston. They
arrived in September, 1768, and were landed on Long
Wharf. Thence they marched to the Common, with
loaded muskets, fixed bayonets, and great pomp and
parade. So now, at last, the free town of Boston was
guarded and over-awed by red-coats, as it had been
in the days of old Sir Edmund Andros.</p>

<p>In the month of November, more regiments
arrived. There were now four thousand troops in
Boston. The Common was whitened with their
tents. Some of the soldiers were lodged in Faneuil
Hall, which the inhabitants looked upon as a consecrated
place, because it had been the scene of a
great many meetings in favor of liberty. One regiment
was placed in the town house, which we now
call the Old State House. The lower floor of this
edifice had hitherto been used by the merchants as
an exchange. In the upper stories were the chambers
of the judges, the representatives, and the governor's
council. The venerable counsellors could
not assemble to consult about the welfare of the
province, without being challenged by sentinels, and
passing among the bayonets of the British soldiers.</p>

<p>Sentinels, likewise, were posted at the lodgings
of the officers, in many parts of the town. When
the inhabitants approached, they were greeted by
the sharp question&#8212;"Who goes there?" while
the rattle of the soldier's musket was heard, as he
presented it against their breasts. There was no
quiet, even on the Sabbath day. The pious descendants
of the Puritans were shocked by the uproar of
military music, the drum, fife, and bugle, drowning
the holy organ peal and the voices of the singers.
It would appear as if the British took every method
to insult the feelings of the people.</p>

<p>"Grandfather," cried Charley, impatiently, "the
people did not go to fighting half soon enough!
These British red-coats ought to have been driven
back to their vessels, the very moment they landed
on Long Wharf."</p>

<p>"Many a hot-headed young man said the same as
you do, Charley," answered Grandfather. "But
the elder and wiser people saw that the time was not
yet come. Meanwhile, let us take another peep at
our old chair."</p>

<p>"Ah, it drooped its head, I know," said Charley,
"when it saw how the province was disgraced. Its
old Puritan friends never would have borne such
doings."</p>

<p>"The chair," proceeded Grandfather, "was now
continually occupied by some of the high tories, as
the king's friends were called, who frequented the
British Coffee House. Officers of the custom-house,
too, which stood on the opposite side of King Street,
often sat in the chair, wagging their tongues against
John Hancock."</p>

<p>"Why against him?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"Because he was a great merchant, and contended
against paying duties to the king," said Grandfather.</p>

<p>"Well, frequently, no doubt, the officers of the
British regiments, when not on duty, used to fling
themselves into the arms of our venerable chair.
Fancy one of them, a red nosed captain, in his
scarlet uniform, playing with the hilt of his sword,
and making a circle of his brother officers merry
with ridiculous jokes at the expense of the poor Yankees.
And perhaps he would call for a bottle of
wine, or a steaming bowl of punch, and drink confusion
to all rebels."</p>

<p>"Our grave old chair must have been scandalized
at such scenes," observed Laurence. "The chair
that had been the Lady Arbella's, and which the
holy Apostle Eliot had consecrated."</p>

<p>"It certainly was little less than sacrilege," replied
Grandfather; "but the time was coming, when
even the churches, where hallowed pastors had long
preached the word of God, were to be torn down or
desecrated by the British troops. Some years
passed, however, before such things were done."</p>

<p>Grandfather now told his auditors, that, in 1769,
Sir Francis Bernard went to England, after having
been governor of Massachusetts ten years. He was
a gentleman of many good qualities, an excellent
scholar, and a friend to learning. But he was naturally
of an arbitrary disposition; and he had been
bred at the University of Oxford, where young men
were taught that the divine right of kings was the
only thing to be regarded in matters of government.
Such ideas were ill adapted to please the people of
Massachusetts. They rejoiced to get rid of Sir
Francis Bernard, but liked his successor, Lieutenant-Governor
Hutchinson, no better than himself.</p>

<p>About this period, the people were much incensed
at an act, committed by a person who held an office
in the custom-house. Some lads, or young men,
were snow-balling his windows. He fired a musket
at them and killed a poor German boy, only eleven
years old. This event made a great noise in town
and country, and much increased the resentment
that was already felt against the servants of the
crown.</p>

<p>"Now, children," said Grandfather, "I wish to
make you comprehend the position of the British
troops in King Street. This is the same which we
now call State Street. On the south side of the
town-house, or Old State House, was what military
men call a court of guard, defended by two brass
cannons, which pointed directly at one of the doors
of the above edifice. A large party of soldiers were
always stationed in the court of guard. The custom-house
stood at a little distance down King Street,
nearly where the Suffolk bank now stands; and a
sentinel was continually pacing before its front."</p>

<p>"I shall remember this, to-morrow," said Charley;
"and I will go to State Street, so as to see exactly
where the British troops were stationed."</p>

<p>"And, before long," observed Grandfather, "I
shall have to relate an event, which made King
Street sadly famous on both sides of the Atlantic.
The history of our chair will soon bring us to this
melancholy business."</p>

<p>Here Grandfather described the state of things,
which arose from the ill-will that existed between the
inhabitants and the red-coats. The old and sober
part of the town's-people were very angry at the
government, for sending soldiers to overawe them.
But those gray-headed men were cautious, and kept
their thoughts and feelings in their own breasts,
without putting themselves in the way of the British
bayonets.</p>

<p>The younger people, however, could hardly be
kept within such prudent limits. They reddened
with wrath at the very sight of a soldier, and would
have been willing to come to blows with them, at any
moment. For it was their opinion, that every tap of
a British drum within the peninsula of Boston, was an
insult to the brave old town.</p>

<p>"It was sometimes the case," continued Grandfather,
"that affrays happened between such wild
young men as these, and small parties of the soldiers.
No weapons had hitherto been used, except fists or
cudgels. But, when men have loaded muskets in
their hands, it is easy to foretell, that they will soon
be turned against the bosoms of those who provoke
their anger."</p>

<p>"Grandfather," said little Alice, looking fearfully
into his face, "your voice sounds as though you
were going to tell us something awful!"</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter V</head>

<p>Little Alice, by her last remark, proved herself
a good judge of what was expressed by the tones of
Grandfather's voice. He had given the above description
of the enmity between the town's-people
and the soldiers, in order to prepare the minds of
his auditors for a very terrible event. It was one
that did more to heighten the quarrel between England
and America, than any thing that had yet
occurred.</p>

<p>Without further preface, Grandfather began the
story of</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE BOSTON MASSACRE</head>

<p>It was now the 3d of March, 1770. The sunset
music of the British regiments was heard, as usual,
throughout the town. The shrill fife and rattling
drum awoke the echoes in King Street, while the
last ray of sunshine was lingering on the cupola of
the town-house. And now, all the sentinels were
posted. One of them marched up and down before
the custom-house, treading a short path through the
snow, and longing for the time when he would be
dismissed to the warm fire-side of the guard-room.
Meanwhile, Captain Preston was perhaps sitting in
our great chair, before the hearth of the British Coffee
House. In the course of the evening, there
were two or three slight commotions, which seemed
to indicate that trouble was at hand. Small parties
of young men stood at the corners of the streets, or
walked along the narrow pavements. Squads of
soldiers, who were dismissed from duty, passed by
them, shoulder to shoulder, with the regular step
which they had learned at the drill. Whenever
these encounters took place, it appeared to be the
object of the young men to treat the soldiers with as
much incivility as possible.</p>

<p>"Turn out, you lobster-backs!" one would say.
"Crowd them off the side-walks!" another would
cry. "A red-coat has no right in Boston streets."</p>

<p>"Oh, you rebel rascals!" perhaps the soldiers
would reply, glaring fiercely at the young men.
"Some day or other, we'll make our way through
Boston streets, at the point of the bayonet!"</p>

<p>Once or twice, such disputes as these brought on
a scuffle; which passed off, however, without attracting
much notice. About eight o'clock, for some
unknown cause, an alarm bell rang loudly and hurriedly.</p>

<p>At the sound, many people ran out of their houses,
supposing it to be an alarm of fire. But there were
no flames to be seen; nor was there any smell of
smoke in the clear, frosty air; so that most of the
townsmen went back to their own fire-sides, and sat
talking with their wives and children about the
calamities of the times. Others, who were younger
and less prudent, remained in the streets; for there
seems to have been a presentiment that some strange
event was on the eve of taking place.</p>

<p>Later in the evening, not far from nine o'clock,
several young men passed by the town-house, and
walked down King Street. The sentinel was still on
his post, in front of the custom-house, pacing to and
fro, while, as he turned, a gleam of light, from
some neighboring window, glittered on the barrel of
his musket. At no great distance were the barracks
and the guard-house, where his comrades
were probably telling stories of battle and bloodshed.</p>

<p>Down towards the custom-house, as I told you,
came a party of wild young men. When they drew
near the sentinel, he halted on his post, and took
his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the
bayonet at their breasts.</p>

<p>"Who goes there?" he cried, in the gruff, peremptory
tones of a soldier's challenge.</p>

<p>The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they
had a right to walk their own streets, without being
accountable to a British red-coat, even though he
challenged them in King George's name. They
made some rude answer to the sentinel. There was
a dispute, or, perhaps a scuffle. Other soldiers
heard the noise, and ran hastily from the barracks,
to assist their comrade. At the same time, many of
the town's-people rushed into King Street, by various
avenues, and gathered in a crowd round about
the custom-house. It seemed wonderful how such
a multitude had started up, all of a sudden.</p>

<p>The wrongs and insults, which the people had
been suffering for many months, now kindled them
into a rage. They threw snow-balls and lumps of
ice at the soldiers. As the tumult grew louder, it
reached the ears of Captain Preston, the officer of
the day. He immediately ordered eight soldiers of
the main guard to take their muskets and follow
him. They marched across the street, forcing their
way roughly through the crowd, and pricking the
town's-people with their bayonets.</p>

<p>A gentleman, (it was Henry Knox, afterwards
general of the American artillery,) caught Captain
Preston's arm.</p>

<p>"For Heaven's sake, sir," exclaimed he, take
heed what you do, or here will be bloodshed."</p>

<p>"Stand aside!" answered Captain Preston,
haughtily. "Do not interfere, sir. Leave me to
manage the affair."</p>

<p>Arriving at the sentinel's post, Captain Preston
drew up his men in a semi-circle, with their faces
to the crowd and their rear to the custom-house.
"When the people saw the officer, and beheld the
threatening attitude with which the soldiers fronted
them, their rage became almost uncontrollable.</p>

<p>"Fire, you lobster-backs!" bellowed some.</p>

<p>"You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats,"
cried others.</p>

<p>"Rush upon them!" shouted many voices.
"Drive the rascals to their barracks! Down
with them! Down with them! Let them fire, if
they dare!"</p>

<p>Amid the uproar, the soldiers stood glaring at the
people, with the fierceness of men whose trade was
to shed blood.</p>

<p>Oh, what a crisis had now arrived! Up to this
very moment, the angry feelings between England
and America might have been pacified. England
had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation,
and acknowledge that she had hitherto mistaken
her rights but would do so no more. Then, the
ancient bonds of brotherhood would again have
been knit together, as firmly as in old times. The
habit of loyalty, which had grown as strong as
instinct, was not utterly overcome. The perils
shared, the victories won, in the Old French War,
when the soldiers of the colonies fought side by side
with their comrades from beyond the sea, were
unforgotten yet. England was still that beloved
country which the colonists called their home.
King George, though he had frowned upon America,
was still reverenced as a father.</p>

<p>But, should the king's soldiers shed one drop of
American blood, then it was a quarrel to the death.
Never&#8212;never would America rest satisfied, until
she had torn down the royal authority, and trampled
it in the dust.</p>

<p>"Fire, if you dare, villains!" hoarsely shouted
the people, while the muzzles of the muskets were
turned upon them; "you dare not fire!"</p>

<p>They appeared ready to rush upon the levelled
bayonets. Captain Preston waved his sword, and
uttered a command which could not be distinctly
heard, amid the uproar of shouts that issued from
a hundred throats. But his soldiers deemed that
he had spoken the fatal mandate&#8212;"fire!" The
flash of their muskets lighted up the street, and the
report rang loudly between the edifices. It was
said, too, that the figure of a man with a cloth hanging
down over his face, was seen to step into the
balcony of the custom-house, and discharge a musket
at the crowd.</p>

<p>A gush of smoke had overspread the scene. It
rose heavily, as if it were loath to reveal the dreadful
spectacle beneath it. Eleven of the sons of
New England lay stretched upon the street. Some,
sorely wounded, were struggling to rise again.
Others stirred not, nor groaned, for they were past
all pain. Blood was streaming upon the snow; and
that purple stain, in the midst of King Street, though
it melted away in the next day's sun, was never
forgotten nor forgiven by the people.</p>

<lb />

<p>Grandfather was interrupted by the violent sobs
of little Alice. In his earnestness, he had neglected
to soften down the narrative, so that it might
not terrify the heart of this unworldly infant. Since
Grandfather began the history of our chair, little
Alice had listened to many tales of war. But, probably,
the idea had never really impressed itself
upon her mind, that men have shed the blood of
their fellow-creatures. And now that this idea was
forcibly presented to her, it affected the sweet child
with bewilderment and horror.</p>

<p>"I ought to have remembered our dear little
Alice," said Grandfather reproachfully to himself.
"Oh, what a pity! Her heavenly nature has now
received its first impression of earthly sin and violence.
Well, Clara, take her to bed, and comfort
her. Heaven grant that she may dream away the
recollection of the Boston Massacre!"</p>

<p>"Grandfather," said Charley, when Clara and
little Alice had retired, "did not the people rush
upon the soldiers, and take revenge?"</p>

<p>"The town drums beat to arms," replied Grandfather,
"the alarm bells rang, and an immense multitude
rushed into King Street. Many of them had
weapons in their hands. The British prepared to
defend themselves. A whole regiment was drawn
up in the street, expecting an attack; for the townsmen
appeared ready to throw themselves upon the
bayonets."</p>

<p>"And how did it end?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"Governor Hutchinson hurried to the spot," said
Grandfather, "and besought the people to have
patience, promising that strict justice should be
done. A day or two afterward, the British troops
were withdrawn from town, and stationed at Castle
William. Captain Preston and the eight soldiers
were tried for murder. But none of them were
found guilty. The judges told the jury that the
insults and violence which had been offered to the
soldiers, justified them in firing at the mob."</p>

<p>"The Revolution," observed Laurence, who had
said but little during the evening, "was not such a
calm, majestic movement as I supposed. I do not
love to hear of mobs and broils in the street. These
things were unworthy of the people, when they had
such a great object to accomplish."</p>

<p>"Nevertheless, the world has seen no grander
movement than that of our Revolution, from first to
last," said Grandfather. "The people, to a man,
were full of a great and noble sentiment. True,
there may be much fault to find with their mode of
expressing this sentiment; but they knew no better&#8212;the
necessity was upon them to act out their
feelings, in the best manner they could. We must
forgive what was wrong in their actions, and look
into their hearts and minds for the honorable motives
that impelled them."</p>

<p>"And I suppose," said Laurence, "there were
men who knew how to act worthily of what they
felt."</p>

<p>"There were many such," replied Grandfather,
"and we will speak of some of them, hereafter."</p>

<p>Grandfather here made a pause. That night,
Charley had a dream about the Boston Massacre,
and thought that he himself was in the crowd, and
struck down Captain Preston with a great club.
Laurence dreamed that he was sitting in our great
chair, at the window of the British Coffee House,
and beheld the whole scene which Grandfather had
described. It seemed to him, in his dream, that if
the town's-people and the soldiers would but have
heard him speak a single word, all the slaughter
might have been averted. But there was such an
uproar that it drowned his voice.</p>

<p>The next morning, the two boys went together to
State Street, and stood on the very spot where the
first blood of the Revolution had been shed. The
Old State House was still there, presenting almost
the same aspect that it had worn on that memorable
evening, one-and-seventy years ago. It is the
sole remaining witness of the Boston Massacre.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VI</head>

<p>The next evening the astral lamp was lighted
earlier than usual, because Laurence was very much
engaged in looking over the collection of portraits
which had been his New Year's gift from Grandfather.</p>

<p>Among them he found the features of more than
one famous personage who had been connected with
the adventures of our old chair. Grandfather bade
him draw the table nearer to the fire-side; and
they looked over the portraits together, while Clara
and Charley likewise lent their attention. As for
little Alice, she sat in Grandfather's lap, and seemed
to see the very men alive, whose faces were there
represented.</p>

<p>Turning over the volume, Laurence came to the
portrait of a stern, grim-looking man, in plain attire,
of much more modern fashion than that of the old
Puritans. But the face might well have befitted
one of those iron-hearted men. Beneath the portrait
was the name of Samuel Adams.</p>

<p>"He was a man of great note in all the doings
that brought about the Revolution," said Grandfather.
"His character was such, that it seemed as
if one of the ancient Puritans had been sent back to
earth, to animate the people's hearts with the same
abhorrence of tyranny, that had distinguished the
earliest settlers. He was as religious as they, as
stern and inflexible, and as deeply imbued with democratic
principles. He, better than any one else,
may be taken as a representative of the people of
New England, and of the spirit with which they engaged
in the revolutionary struggle. He was a poor
man, and earned his bread by an humble occupation;
but with his tongue and pen, he made the
king of England tremble on his throne. Remember
him, my children, as one of the strong men of our
country."</p>

<p>"Here is one whose looks show a very different
character," observed Laurence, turning to the portrait
of John Hancock. "I should think, by his
splendid dress and courtly aspect, that he was one
of the king's friends."</p>

<p>"There never was a greater contrast than between
Samuel Adams and John Hancock," said
Grandfather. "Yet they were of the same side in
politics, and had an equal agency in the Revolution.
Hancock was born to the inheritance of the largest
fortune in New England. His tastes and habits
were aristocratic. He loved gorgeous attire, a
splendid mansion, magnificent furniture, stately festivals,
and all that was glittering and pompous in
external things. His manners were so polished, that
there stood not a nobleman at the footstool of King
George's throne, who was a more skilful courtier
than John Hancock might have been. Nevertheless,
he, in his embroidered clothes, and Samuel
Adams in his threadbare coat, wrought together in
the cause of liberty. Adams acted from pure and
rigid principle. Hancock, though he loved his
country, yet thought quite as much of his own popularity
as he did of the people's rights. It is remarkable,
that these two men, so very different as I
describe them, were the only two exempted from
pardon by the king's proclamation."</p>

<p>On the next leaf of the book, was the portrait of
General Joseph Warren. Charley recognized the
name, and said that here was a greater man than
either Hancock or Adams.</p>

<p>"Warren was an eloquent and able patriot," replied
Grandfather. "He deserves a lasting memory
for his zealous efforts in behalf of liberty. No
man's voice was more powerful in Faneuil Hall than
Joseph Warren's. If his death had not happened
so early in the contest, he would probably have
gained a high name as a soldier."</p>

<p>The next portrait was a venerable man, who held
his thumb under his chin, and, through his spectacles,
appeared to be attentively reading a manuscript.</p>

<p>"Here we see the most illustrious Boston boy
that ever lived," said Grandfather. "This is Benjamin
Franklin! But I will not try to compress,
into a few sentences, the character of the sage, who,
as a Frenchman expressed it, snatched the lightning
from the sky, and the sceptre from a tyrant. Mr.
Sparks must help you to the knowledge of Franklin."</p>

<p>The book likewise contained portraits of James
Otis and Josiah Quincy. Both of them, Grandfather
observed, were men of wonderful talents and true
patriotism. Their voices were like the stirring tones
of a trumpet, arousing the country to defend its freedom.
Heaven seemed to have provided a greater
number of eloquent men than had appeared at any
other period, in order that the people might be fully
instructed as to their wrongs, and the method of
resistance.</p>

<p>"It is marvellous," said Grandfather, "to see
how many powerful writers, orators, and soldiers
started up, just at the time when they were wanted.
There was a man for every kind of work. It is
equally wonderful, that men of such different characters
were all made to unite in the one object of
establishing the freedom and independence of America.
There was an overruling Providence above
them."</p>

<p>"Here was another great man," remarked Laurence,
pointing to the portrait of John Adams.</p>

<p>"Yes; an earnest, warm-tempered, honest, and
most able man," said Grandfather. "At the period
of which we are now speaking, he was a lawyer in
Boston. He was destined, in after years, to be
ruler over the whole American people, whom he
contributed so much to form into a nation."</p>

<p>Grandfather here remarked, that many a New
Englander, who had passed his boyhood and youth
in obscurity, afterward attained to a fortune, which
he never could have foreseen, even in his most ambitious
dreams. John Adams, the second president
of the United States, and the equal of crowned
kings, was once a schoolmaster and country lawyer.
Hancock, the first signer of the Declaration of Independence,
served his apprenticeship with a merchant.
Samuel Adams, afterward governor of Massachusetts,
was a small tradesman and a tax-gatherer.
General Warren was a physician, General Lincoln
a farmer, and General Knox a bookbinder. General
Nathaniel Greene, the best soldier, except Washington,
in the revolutionary army, was a Quaker and a
blacksmith. All these became illustrious men, and
can never be forgotten in American history.</p>

<p>"And any boy, who is born in America, may
look forward to the same things," said our ambitious
friend Charley.</p>

<p>After these observations, Grandfather drew the
book of portraits towards him, and showed the children
several British peers and members of Parliament,
who had exerted themselves either for or against the
rights of America. There were the Earl of Bute,
Mr. Grenville, and Lord North. These were looked
upon as deadly enemies to our country.</p>

<p>Among the friends of America was Mr. Pitt, afterward
Earl of Chatham, who spent so much of his
wondrous eloquence in endeavoring to warn England
of the consequences of her injustice. He fell down
on the floor of the House of Lords, after uttering
almost his dying words in defence of our privileges
as freemen. There was Edmund Burke, one of the
wisest men and greatest orators that ever the world
produced. There was Colonel Barr&#233;, who had been
among our fathers, and knew that they had courage
enough to die for their rights. There was Charles
James Fox, who never rested until he had silenced
our enemies in the House of Commons.</p>

<p>"It is very remarkable to observe how many of
the ablest orators in the British Parliament were favorable
to America," said Grandfather. "We ought
to remember these great Englishmen with gratitude;
for their speeches encouraged our fathers, almost as
much as those of our own orators, in Faneuil Hall,
and under Liberty Tree. Opinions, which might
have been received with doubt, if expressed only by
a native American, were set down as true, beyond
dispute, when they came from the lips of Chatham,
Burke, Barr&#233;, or Fox."</p>

<p>"But, Grandfather," asked Laurence, "were
there no able and eloquent men in this country who
took the part of King George?"</p>

<p>"There were many men of talent, who said what
they could in defence of the king's tyrannical proceedings,"
replied Grandfather. "But they had
the worst side of the argument, and therefore seldom
said any thing worth remembering. Moreover their
hearts were faint and feeble; for they felt that the
people scorned and detested them. They had no
friends, no defence, except in the bayonets of the
British troops. A blight fell upon all their faculties,
because they were contending against the rights of
their own native land."</p>

<p>"What were the names of some of them?" inquired
Charley.</p>

<p>"Governor Hutchinson, Chief Justice Oliver,
Judge Auchmuty, the Reverend Mather Byles, and
several other clergymen, were among the most noted
loyalists," answered Grandfather.</p>

<p>"I wish the people had tarred and feathered every
man of them!" cried Charley.</p>

<p>"That wish is very wrong, Charley," said Grandfather.
"You must not think that there was no
integrity and honor, except among those who stood
up for the freedom of America. For aught I know,
there was quite as much of these qualities on one
side as on the other. Do you see nothing admirable
in a faithful adherence to an unpopular cause? Can
you not respect that principle of loyalty, which made
the royalists give up country, friends, fortune, every
thing, rather than be false to their king? It was a
mistaken principle; but many of them cherished it
honorably, and were martyrs to it."</p>

<p>"Oh, I was wrong!" said Charley, ingenuously.
"And I would risk my life, rather than one of those
good old royalists should be tarred and feathered."</p>

<p>"The time is now come, when we may judge fairly
of them," continued Grandfather. "Be the good
and true men among them honored; for they were
as much our countrymen as the patriots were. And,
thank Heaven! our country need not be ashamed
of her sons&#8212;of most of them, at least&#8212;whatever
side they took in the revolutionary contest."</p>

<p>Among the portraits was one of King George the
Third. Little Alice clapped her hands, and seemed
pleased with the bluff good nature of his physiognomy.
But Laurence thought it strange, that a
man with such a face, indicating hardly a common
share of intellect, should have had influence enough
on human affairs, to convulse the world with war.
Grandfather observed, that this poor king had always
appeared to him one of the most unfortunate persons
that ever lived. He was so honest and conscientious,
that, if he had been only a private man, his life would
probably have been blameless and happy. But his
was that worst of fortunes, to be placed in a station
far beyond his abilities.</p>

<p>"And so," said Grandfather, "his life, while he
retained what intellect Heaven had gifted him with,
was one long mortification. At last, he grew crazed
with care and trouble. For nearly twenty years,
the monarch of England was confined as a madman.
In his old age, too, God took away his eyesight; so
that his royal palace was nothing to him but a dark,
lonesome prison-house."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VII</head>

<p>"Our old chair," resumed Grandfather, "did not
now stand in the midst of a gay circle of British
officers. The troops, as I told you, had been removed
to Castle William, immediately after the Boston
Massacre. Still, however, there were many
tories, custom-house officers, and Englishmen, who
used to assemble in the British Coffee House, and
talk over the affairs of the period. Matters grew
worse and worse; and in 1773, the people did a
deed, which incensed the king and ministry more
than any of their former doings."</p>

<p>Grandfather here described the affair, which is
known by the name of the Boston Tea Party. The
Americans, for some time past, had left off importing
tea, on account of the oppressive tax. The East
India Company, in London, had a large stock of tea
on hand, which they had expected to sell to the
Americans, but could find no market for it. But,
after a while, the government persuaded this company
of merchants to send the tea to America.</p>

<p>"How odd it is," observed Clara, "that the liberties
of America should have had any thing to do
with a cup of tea!"</p>

<p>Grandfather smiled, and proceeded with his narrative.
When the people of Boston heard that
several cargoes of tea were coming across the Atlantic,
they held a great many meetings at Faneuil
Hall, in the Old South church, and under Liberty
Tree. In the midst of their debates, three ships
arrived in the harbor with the tea on board. The
people spent more than a fortnight in consulting
what should be done. At last, on the 16th of December,
1773, they demanded of Governor Hutchinson,
that he should immediately send the ships
back to England.</p>

<p>The governor replied that the ships must not leave
the harbor, until the custom-house duties upon the
tea should be paid. Now, the payment of these
duties was the very thing, against which the people
had set their faces; because it was a tax, unjustly
imposed upon America by the English government.
Therefore, in the dusk of the evening, as soon as
Governor Hutchinson's reply was received, an immense
crowd hastened to Griffin's Wharf, where the
tea-ships lay. The place is now called Liverpool
Wharf.</p>

<p>"When the crowd reached the wharf," said Grandfather,
"they saw that a set of wild-looking figures
were already on board of the ships. You would
have imagined that the Indian warriors, of old times,
had come back again; for they wore the Indian
dress, and had their faces covered with red and
black paint, like the Indians, when they go to war.
These grim figures hoisted the tea chests on the
decks of the vessels, broke them open, and threw all
the contents into the harbor."</p>

<p>"Grandfather," said little Alice, "I suppose Indians
don't love tea; else they would never waste
it so."</p>

<p>"They were not real Indians, my child," answered
Grandfather. "They were white men, in disguise;
because a heavy punishment would have been inflicted
on them, if the king's officers had found who they
were. But it was never known. From that day to
this, though the matter has been talked of by all the
world, nobody can tell the names of those Indian
figures. Some people say that there were very famous
men among them, who afterwards became governors
and generals. Whether this be true, I cannot tell."</p>

<p>When tidings of this bold deed were carried to
England, King George was greatly enraged. Parliament
immediately passed an act, by which all vessels
were forbidden to take in or discharge their cargoes at
the port of Boston. In this way, they expected to ruin
all the merchants, and starve the poor people, by
depriving them of employment. At the same time,
another act was passed, taking away many rights
and privileges which had been granted in the charter
of Massachusetts.</p>

<p>Governor Hutchinson, soon afterward, was summoned
to England, in order that he might give his
advice about the management of American affairs.
General Gage, an officer of the Old French War,
and since commander-in-chief of the British forces in
America, was appointed governor in his stead. One
of his first acts, was to make Salem, instead of Boston,
the metropolis of Massachusetts, by summoning
the General Court to meet there.</p>

<p>According to Grandfather's description, this was
the most gloomy time that Massachusetts had ever
seen. The people groaned under as heavy a tyranny
as in the days of Sir Edmund Andros. Boston
looked as if it were afflicted with some dreadful
pestilence,&#8212;so sad were the inhabitants, and so
desolate the streets. There was no cheerful hum of
business. The merchants shut up their warehouses,
and the laboring men stood idle about the wharves.
But all America felt interested in the good town of
Boston; and contributions were raised, in many
places, for the relief of the poor inhabitants.</p>

<p>"Our dear old chair!" exclaimed Clara. "How
dismal it must have been now!"</p>

<p>"Oh," replied Grandfather, "a gay throng of
officers had now come back to the British Coffee
House; so that the old chair had no lack of mirthful
company. Soon after General Gage became governor,
a great many troops had arrived, and were
encamped upon the Common. Boston was now a
garrisoned and fortified town; for the general had
built a battery across the neck, on the road to Roxbury,
and placed guards for its defence. Every
thing looked as if a civil war were close at hand."</p>

<p>"Did the people make ready to fight?" asked
Charley.</p>

<p>"A continental Congress assembled at Philadelphia,"
said Grandfather, "and proposed such measures
as they thought most conducive to the public
good. A provincial Congress was likewise chosen in
Massachusetts. They exhorted the people to arm
and discipline themselves. A great number of
minute men were enrolled. The Americans called
them minute men, because they engaged to be ready
to fight at a minute's warning. The English officers
laughed, and said that the name was a very proper
one, because the minute men would run away the
the minute they saw the enemy. Whether they
would fight or run, was soon to be proved."</p>

<p>Grandfather told the children, that the first open
resistance offered to the British troops, in the province
of Massachusetts was at Salem. Colonel Timothy
Pickering, with thirty or forty militia men, prevented
the English colonel, Leslie, with four times as many
regular soldiers, from taking possession of some military
stores. No blood was shed on this occasion;
but, soon afterward, it began to flow.</p>

<p>General Gage sent eight hundred soldiers to
Concord, about eighteen miles from Boston, to
destroy some ammunition and provisions which the
colonists had collected there. They set out on their
march in the evening of the 18th of April, 1775.
The next morning, the General sent Lord Percy,
with nine hundred men, to strengthen the troops
which had gone before. All that day, the inhabitants
of Boston heard various rumors. Some said,
that the British were making great slaughter among
our countrymen. Others affirmed that every man
had turned out with his musket, and that not a single
soldier would ever get back to Boston.</p>

<p>"It was after sunset," continued Grandfather,
"when the troops, who had marched forth so proudly,
were seen entering Charlestown. They were
covered with dust, and so hot and weary that their
tongues hung out of their mouths. Many of them
were faint with wounds. They had not all returned.
Nearly three hundred were strewn, dead or dying,
along the road from Concord. The yeomanry had
risen upon the invaders, and driven them back."</p>

<p>"Was this the battle of Lexington?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"Yes," replied Grandfather; "it was so called,
because the British, without provocation, had fired
upon a party of minute men, near Lexington meeting-house,
and killed eight of them. That fatal volley,
which was fired by order of Major Pitcairn,
began the war of the Revolution."</p>

<p>About this time, if Grandfather had been correctly
informed, our chair disappeared from the
British Coffee House. The manner of its departure
cannot be satisfactorily ascertained. Perhaps the
keeper of the Coffee House turned it out of doors,
on account of its old-fashioned aspect. Perhaps he
sold it as a curiosity. Perhaps it was taken, without
leave, by some person who regarded it as public
property, because it had once figured under Liberty
Tree. Or, perhaps, the old chair, being of a
peaceable disposition, had made use of its four
oaken legs, and run away from the seat of war.</p>

<p>"It would have made a terrible clattering over
the pavement," said Charley, laughing.</p>

<p>"Meanwhile," continued Grandfather, "during
the mysterious non-appearance of our chair, an
army of twenty thousand men had started up, and
come to the siege of Boston. General Gage and
his troops were cooped up within the narrow precincts
of the peninsula. On the 17th of June,
1775, the famous battle of Bunker Hill was fought.
Here General Warren fell. The British got the
victory, indeed, but with the loss of more than a
thousand officers and men."</p>

<p>"O, Grandfather," cried Charley, "you must
tell us about that famous battle."</p>

<p>"No, Charley," said Grandfather, "I am not
like other historians. Battles shall not hold a prominent
place in the history of our quiet and comfortable
old chair. But, to-morrow evening, Laurence,
Clara, and yourself, and dear little Alice too, shall
visit the Diorama of Bunker Hill. There you shall
see the whole business, the burning of Charlestown
and all, with your own eyes, and hear the cannon
and musketry with your own ears."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VIII</head>

<p>The next evening but one, when the children had
given Grandfather a full account of the Diorama of
Bunker Hill, they entreated him not to keep them
any longer in suspense about the fate of his chair.
The reader will recollect, that at the last accounts,
it had trotted away upon its poor old legs, nobody
knew whither. But, before gratifying their
curiosity, Grandfather found it necessary to say
something about public events.</p>

<p>The continental Congress, which was assembled
at Philadelphia, was composed of delegates from all
the colonies. They had now appointed George
Washington, of Virginia, to be commander-in-chief
of all the American armies. He was, at that time,
a member of Congress, but immediately left Philadelphia,
and began his journey to Massachusetts.
On the 3d of July, 1775, he arrived at Cambridge,
and took command of the troops which were besieging
General Gage.</p>

<p>"O, Grandfather," exclaimed Laurence, "it
makes my heart throb to think what is coming now.
We are to see General Washington himself."</p>

<p>The children crowded around Grandfather, and
looked earnestly into his face. Even little Alice
opened her sweet blue eyes, with her lips apart,
and almost held her breath to listen; so instinctive
is the reverence of childhood for the father of his
country. Grandfather paused a moment; for he
felt as if it might be irreverent to introduce the hallowed
shade of Washington into a history, where an
ancient elbow chair occupied the most prominent
place. However, he determined to proceed with
his narrative, and speak of the hero when it was
needful, but with an unambitious simplicity.</p>

<p>So Grandfather told his auditors, that, on General
Washington's arrival at Cambridge, his first
care was, to reconnoitre the British troops with his
spy-glass, and to examine the condition of his own
army. He found that the American troops amounted
to about fourteen thousand men. They were
extended all round the peninsula of Boston, a space
of twelve miles, from the high grounds of Roxbury
on the right, to Mystic river on the left. Some
were living in tents of sail-cloth, some in shanties,
rudely constructed of boards, some in huts of stone
or turf, with curious windows and doors of basket-work.</p>

<p>In order to be near the centre, and oversee the
whole of this wide-stretched army, the commander-in-chief
made his head-quarters at Cambridge, about
half a mile from the colleges. A mansion-house,
which perhaps had been the country-seat of some
tory gentleman, was provided for his residence.</p>

<p>"When General Washington first entered this
mansion," said Grandfather, "he was ushered up
the stair-case, and shown into a handsome apartment.
He sat down in a large chair, which was
the most conspicuous object in the room. The noble
figure of Washington would have done honor to a
throne. As he sat there, with his hand resting on
the hilt of his sheathed sword, which was placed
between his knees, his whole aspect well befitted
the chosen man on whom his country leaned for the
defence of her dearest rights. America seemed
safe, under his protection. His face was grander
than any sculptor had ever wrought in marble;
none could behold him without awe and reverence.
Never before had the lion's head, at the summit of
the chair, looked down upon such a face and form
as Washington's!"</p>

<p>"Why! Grandfather," cried Clara, clasping her
hands in amazement, "was it really so? Did General
Washington sit in our great chair?"</p>

<p>"I knew how it would be," said Laurence;
"I foresaw it, the moment Grandfather began to
speak."</p>

<p>Grandfather smiled. But, turning from the personal
and domestic life of the illustrious leader, he
spoke of the methods which Washington adopted to
win back the metropolis of New England from the
British.</p>

<p>The army, when he took command of it, was
without any discipline or order. The privates considered
themselves as good as their officers, and seldom
thought it necessary to obey their commands,
unless they understood the why and wherefore.
Moreover, they were enlisted for so short a period,
that, as soon as they began to be respectable soldiers,
it was time to discharge them. Then came
new recruits, who had to be taught their duty,
before they could be of any service. Such was the
army, with which Washington had to contend
against more than twenty veteran British regiments.</p>

<p>Some of the men had no muskets, and almost all
were without bayonets. Heavy cannon, for battering
the British fortifications, were much wanted.
There was but a small quantity of powder and ball,
few tools to build entrenchments with, and a great
deficiency of provisions and clothes for the soldiers.
Yet, in spite of these perplexing difficulties, the
eyes of the whole people were fixed on General
Washington, expecting him to undertake some great
enterprise against the hostile army.</p>

<p>The first thing that he found necessary, was to
bring his own men into better order and discipline.
It is wonderful how soon he transformed this rough
mob of country people into the semblance of a regular
army. One of Washington's most invaluable
characteristics, was the faculty of bringing order
out of confusion. All business, with which he had
any concern, seemed to regulate itself, as if by
magic. The influence of his mind was like light,
gleaming through an unshaped world. It was this
faculty, more than any other, that made him so fit
to ride upon the storm of the Revolution, when
every thing was unfixed, and drifting about in a
troubled sea.</p>

<p>"Washington had not been long at the head of
the army," proceeded Grandfather, "before his
soldiers thought as highly of him, as if he had led
them to a hundred victories. They knew that he
was the very man whom the country needed, and
the only one who could bring them safely through
the great contest against the might of England.
They put entire confidence in his courage, wisdom,
and integrity."</p>

<p>"And were not they eager to follow him against
the British?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"Doubtless they would have gone whithersoever
his sword pointed the way," answered Grandfather;
"and Washington was anxious to make a decisive
assault upon the enemy. But as the enterprise was
very hazardous, he called a council of all the generals
in the army. Accordingly, they came from
their different posts, and were ushered into the
reception room. The commander-in-chief arose from
our great chair to greet them."</p>

<p>"What were their names?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"There was General Artemas Ward," replied
Grandfather, a "lawyer by profession. He had
commanded the troops before Washington's arrival.
Another was General Charles Lee, who had been a
colonel in the English army, and was thought to possess
vast military science. He came to the council,
followed by two or three dogs, who were always at
his heels. There was General Putnam, too, who
was known all over New England by the name of
Old Put."</p>

<p>"Was it he who killed the wolf?" inquired
Charley.</p>

<p>"The same," said Grandfather; "and he had
done good service in the Old French War. His
occupation was that of a farmer; but he left his
plough in the furrow, at the news of Lexington
battle. Then there was General Gates, who afterward
gained great renown at Saratoga, and lost it
again at Camden. General Greene, of Rhode
Island, was likewise at the council. Washington
soon discovered him to be one of the best officers in
the army."</p>

<p>When the Generals were all assembled, Washington
consulted them about a plan for storming the
English batteries. But it was their unanimous
opinion that so perilous an enterprise ought not to
be attempted. The army, therefore, continued to
besiege Boston, preventing the enemy from obtaining
supplies of provisions, but without taking any
immediate measures to get possession of the town.
In this manner, the summer, autumn, and winter
passed away.</p>

<p>"Many a night, doubtless," said Grandfather,
"after Washington had been all day on horseback,
galloping from one post of the army to another, he
used to sit in our great chair, wrapt in earnest
thought. Had you seen him, you might have supposed
that his whole mind was fixed on the blue
china tiles, which adorned the old fashioned fire-place.
But, in reality, he was meditating how to
capture the British army, or drive it out of Boston.
Once, when there was a hard frost, he formed a
scheme to cross the Charles River on the ice. But
the other Generals could not be persuaded that there
was any prospect of success."</p>

<p>"What were the British doing, all this time?"
inquired Charley.</p>

<p>"They lay idle in the town," replied Grandfather.
"General Gage had been recalled to England, and
was succeeded by Sir William Howe. The British
army, and the inhabitants of Boston, were now in great
distress. Being shut up in the town so long, they
had consumed almost all their provisions, and burnt
up all their fuel. The soldiers tore down the Old
North church, and used its rotten boards and timbers
for fire-wood. To heighten their distress, the small
pox broke out. They probably lost far more men by
cold, hunger, and sickness, than had been slain at
Lexington and Bunker Hill."</p>

<p>"What a dismal time for the poor women and
children!" exclaimed Clara.</p>

<p>"At length," continued Grandfather, "in March,
1776, General Washington, who had now a good
supply of powder, began a terrible cannonade and
bombardment from Dorchester heights. One of the
cannon balls which he fired into the town, struck the
tower of the Brattle Street church, where it may
still be seen. Sir William Howe made preparations
to cross over in boats, and drive the Americans from
their batteries, but was prevented by a violent gale
and storm. General Washington next erected a
battery on Nook's hill, so near the enemy, that it
was impossible for them to remain in Boston any
longer."</p>

<p>"Hurra! Hurra!" cried Charley, clapping his
hands triumphantly. "I wish I had been there, to
see how sheepish the Englishmen looked."</p>

<p>And, as Grandfather thought that Boston had
never witnessed a more interesting period than this,
when the royal power was in its death agony, he determined
to take a peep into the town, and imagine
the feelings of those who were quitting it forever.</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IX</head>

<p>"Alas! for the poor tories!" said Grandfather.
"Until the very last morning after Washington's
troops had shown themselves on Nook's hill, these
unfortunate persons could not believe that the audacious
rebels, as they called the Americans, would
ever prevail against King George's army. But,
when they saw the British soldiers preparing to embark
on board of the ships of war, then they knew
that they had lost their country. Could the patriots
have known how bitter were their regrets, they would
have forgiven them all their evil deeds, and sent a
blessing after them as they sailed away from their
native shore."</p>

<p>In order to make the children sensible of the
pitiable condition of these men, Grandfather singled
out Peter Oliver, chief justice of Massachusetts under
the crown, and imagined him walking through
the streets of Boston, on the morning before he left
it forever.</p>

<p>This effort of Grandfather's fancy may be called&#8212;</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>THE TORY'S FAREWELL</head>

<p>Old Chief Justice Oliver threw on his red cloak,
and placed his three-cornered hat on the top of his
white wig. In this garb he intended to go forth and
take a parting look at objects that had been familiar
to him from his youth. Accordingly, he began his
walk in the north part of the town, and soon came to
Faneuil Hall. This edifice, the cradle of liberty,
had been used by the British officers as a play-house.</p>

<p>"Would that I could see its walls crumble to
dust!" thought the chief justice; and, in the bitterness
of his heart, he shook his fist at the famous hall.
"There began the mischief which now threatens
to rend asunder the British empire. The seditious
harangues of demagogues in Faneuil Hall, have
made rebels of a loyal people, and deprived me of
my country."</p>

<p>He then passed through a narrow avenue, and
found himself in King Street, almost in the very
spot which, six years before, had been reddened by
the blood of the Boston Massacre. The chief justice
stept cautiously, and shuddered, as if he were afraid,
that, even now, the gore of his slaughtered countrymen
might stain his feet.</p>

<p>Before him rose the town house, on the front of
which were still displayed the royal arms. Within
that edifice he had dispensed justice to the people,
in the days when his name was never mentioned
without honor. There, too, was the balcony whence
the trumpet had been sounded, and the proclamation
read to an assembled multitude, whenever a new
king of England ascended the throne.</p>

<p>"I remember&#8212;I remember," said Chief Justice
Oliver to himself, "when his present most sacred
majesty was proclaimed. Then how the people
shouted. Each man would have poured out his life-blood
to keep a hair of King George's head from
harm. But now, there is scarcely a tongue in all
New England that does not imprecate curses on his
name. It is ruin and disgrace to love him. Can
it be possible that a few fleeting years have wrought
such a change!"</p>

<p>It did not occur to the chief justice, that nothing
but the most grievous tyranny could so soon have
changed the people's hearts. Hurrying from the
spot, he entered Cornhill, as the lower part of Washington
Street was then called. Opposite to the town
house was the waste foundation of the Old North
church. The sacrilegious hands of the British soldiers
had torn it down, and kindled their barrack
fires with the fragments.</p>

<p>Further on, he passed beneath the tower of the
Old South. The threshold of this sacred edifice was
worn by the iron tramp of horse's feet: for the interior
had been used as a riding-school and rendezvous,
for a regiment of dragoons. As the chief
justice lingered an instant at the door, a trumpet
sounded within, and the regiment came clattering
forth, and galloped down the street. They were
proceeding to the place of embarkation.</p>

<p>"Let them go!" thought the chief justice, with
somewhat of an old puritan feeling in his breast.
"No good can come of men who desecrate the house
of God."</p>

<p>He went on a few steps further, and paused before
the Province House. No range of brick stores
had then sprung up to hide the mansion of the royal
governors from public view. It had a spacious court-yard,
bordered with trees, and enclosed with a
wrought-iron fence. On the cupola, that surmounted
the edifice, was the gilded figure of an Indian chief,
ready to let fly an arrow from his bow. Over the
wide front door was a balcony, in which the chief
justice had often stood, when the governor and high
officers of the province showed themselves to the
people.</p>

<p>While Chief Justice Oliver gazed sadly at the
Province House, before which a sentinel was pacing,
the double leaves of the door were thrown open, and
Sir William Howe made his appearance. Behind
him came a throng of officers, whose steel scabbards
clattered against the stones, as they hastened down
the court-yard. Sir William Howe was a dark-complexioned
man, stern and haughty in his deportment.
He stepped as proudly, in that hour of defeat, as if
he were going to receive the submission of the rebel
general.</p>

<p>The chief justice bowed and accosted him.</p>

<p>"This is a grievous hour for both of us, Sir William,"
said he.</p>

<p>"Forward! gentlemen," said Sir William Howe
to the officers who attended him: "we have no time
to hear lamentations now!"</p>

<p>And, coldly bowing, he departed. Thus, the
chief justice had a foretaste of the mortifications
which the exiled New Englanders afterwards suffered
from the haughty Britons. They were despised
even by that country which they had served
more faithfully than their own.</p>

<p>A still heavier trial awaited Chief Justice Oliver,
as he passed onward from the Province House.
He was recognized by the people in the street.
They had long known him as the descendant of an
ancient and honorable family. They had seen him
sitting, in his scarlet robes, upon the judgment seat.
All his life long, either for the sake of his ancestors,
or on account of his own dignified station and
unspotted character, he had been held in high
respect. The old gentry of the province were
looked upon almost as noblemen, while Massachusetts
was under royal government.</p>

<p>But now, all hereditary reverence for birth and
rank was gone. The inhabitants shouted in derision,
when they saw the venerable form of the old
chief justice. They laid the wrongs of the country,
and their own sufferings during the siege&#8212;their
hunger, cold, and sickness&#8212;partly to his charge,
and to that of his brother Andrew, and his kinsman
Hutchinson. It was by their advice that the
king had acted, in all the colonial troubles. But
the day of recompense was come.</p>

<p>"See the old tory!" cried the people, with bitter
laughter. "He is taking his last look at us.
Let him show his white wig among us an hour
hence, and we'll give him a coat of tar and feathers!"</p>

<p>The chief justice, however, knew that he need
fear no violence, so long as the British troops were
in possession of the town. But alas! it was a bitter
thought, that he should leave no loving memory
behind him. His forefathers, long after their spirits
left the earth, had been honored in the affectionate
remembrance of the people. But he, who would
henceforth be dead to his native land, would have
no epitaph save scornful and vindictive words. The
old man wept.</p>

<p>"They curse me&#8212;they invoke all kinds of evil
on my head!" thought he, in the midst of his tears.
"But, if they could read my heart, they would
know that I love New England well. Heaven bless
her, and bring her again under the rule of our gracious
king! A blessing, too, on these poor, misguided
people!"</p>

<p>The chief justice flung out his hands with a gesture,
as if he were bestowing a parting benediction
on his countrymen. He had now reached the southern
portion of the town, and was far within the
range of cannon shot from the American batteries.
Close beside him was the broad stump of a tree,
which appeared to have been recently cut down.
Being weary and heavy at heart, he was about to
sit down upon the stump.</p>

<p>Suddenly, it flashed upon his recollection, that
this was the stump of Liberty Tree! The British
soldiers had cut it down, vainly boasting that
they could as easily overthrow the liberties of America.
Under its shadowy branches, ten years before,
the brother of Chief Justice Oliver had been compelled
to acknowledge the supremacy of the people,
by taking the oath which they prescribed. This
tree was connected with all the events that had severed
America from England.</p>

<p>"Accursed tree!" cried the chief justice,
gnashing his teeth: for anger overcame his sorrow.
"Would that thou hadst been left standing,
till Hancock, Adams, and every other traitor, were
hanged upon thy branches! Then fitly mightest
thou have been hewn down, and cast into the
flames."</p>

<p>He turned back, hurried to Long Wharf without
looking behind him, embarked with the British
troops for Halifax, and never saw his country more.
Throughout the remainder of his days, Chief Justice
Oliver was agitated with those same conflicting
emotions, that had tortured him, while taking his
farewell walk through the streets of Boston. Deep
love and fierce resentment burned in one flame
within his breast. Anathemas struggled with benedictions.
He felt as if one breath of his native
air would renew his life, yet would have died, rather
than breathe the same air with rebels.</p>

<p>And such, likewise, were the feelings of the other
exiles, a thousand in number, who departed with the
British army. Were they not the most unfortunate
of men?</p>

<lb />

<p>"The misfortunes of these exiled tories," observed
Laurence, "must have made them think of
the poor exiles of Acadia."</p>

<p>"They had a sad time of it, I suppose," said
Charley. "But I choose to rejoice with the patriots,
rather than be sorrowful with the tories.
Grandfather, what did General Washington do
now?"</p>

<p>"As the rear of the British army embarked from
the wharf," replied Grandfather, "General Washington's
troops marched over the neck, through the
fortification gates, and entered Boston in triumph.
And now, for the first time since the pilgrims landed,
Massachusetts was free from the dominion of England.
May she never again be subjected to foreign
rule&#8212;never again feel the rod of oppression!"</p>

<p>"Dear Grandfather," asked little Alice, "did
General Washington bring our chair back to Boston?"</p>

<p>"I know not how long the chair remained at
Cambridge," said Grandfather. "Had it staid
there till this time, it could not have found a better
or more appropriate shelter. The mansion which
General Washington occupied is still standing;
and his apartments have since been tenanted by
several eminent men. Governor Everett, while a
professor in the university, resided there. So at an
after period, did Mr. Sparks, whose invaluable
labors have connected his name with the immortality
of Washington. And, at this very time, a venerable
friend and contemporary of your Grandfather,
after long pilgrimages beyond the sea, has
set up his staff of rest at Washington's head-quarters."</p>

<p>"You mean Professor Longfellow, Grandfather,"
said Laurence. "Oh, how I should love to see the
author of those beautiful <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Voices Of The Night</hi>!"</p>

<p>"We will visit him next summer," answered
Grandfather, "and take Clara and little Alice with
us&#8212;and Charley, too, if he will be quiet."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter X</head>

<p>When Grandfather resumed his narrative, the
next evening, he told the children that he had some
difficulty in tracing the movements of the chair,
during a short period after General Washington's
departure from Cambridge.</p>

<p>Within a few months, however, it made its appearance
at a shop in Boston, before the door of
which was seen a striped pole. In the interior was
displayed a stuffed alligator, a rattlesnake's skin, a
bundle of Indian arrows, an old-fashioned matchlock
gun, a walking-stick of Governor Winthrop's, a wig
of old Cotton Mather's, and a colored print of the
Boston Massacre. In short, it was a barber's shop,
kept by a Mr. Pierce, who prided himself on having
shaved General Washington, Old Put, and
many other famous persons.</p>

<p>"This was not a very dignified situation for our
venerable chair," continued Grandfather; "but,
you know, there is no better place for news, than a
barber's shop. All the events of the revolutionary
war were heard of there, sooner than anywhere else.
People used to sit in the chair, reading the newspaper
or talking, and waiting to be shaved, while
Mr. Pierce with his scissors and razor, was at work
upon the heads or chins of his other customers."</p>

<p>"I am sorry the chair could not betake itself to
some more suitable place of refuge," said Laurence.
"It was old now, and must have longed for quiet.
Besides, after it had held Washington in its arms,
it ought not to have been compelled to receive all
the world. It should have been put into the pulpit
of the Old South Church, or some other consecrated
place."</p>

<p>"Perhaps so," answered Grandfather. "But the
chair, in the course of its varied existence, had grown
so accustomed to general intercourse with society,
that I doubt whether it would have contented itself
in the pulpit of the Old South. There it would have
stood solitary, or with no livelier companion than the
silent organ, in the opposite gallery, six days out of
seven. I incline to think, that it had seldom been
situated more to its mind, than on the sanded floor
of the snug little barber's shop."</p>

<p>Then Grandfather amused his children and himself,
with fancying all the different sorts of people
who had occupied our chair, while they awaited the
leisure of the barber.</p>

<p>There was the old clergyman, such as Dr. Chauncey,
wearing a white wig, which the barber took from
his head, and placed upon a wig-block. Half an hour,
perhaps, was spent in combing and powdering this
reverend appendage to a clerical skull. There too,
were officers of the continental army, who required
their hair to be pomatumed and plastered, so as to give
them a bold and martial aspect. There, once in a
while, was seen the thin, care-worn, melancholy visage
of an old tory, with a wig that, in times long past,
had perhaps figured at a Province House ball. And
there, not unfrequently, sat the rough captain of a
privateer, just returned from a successful cruise, in
which he had captured half a dozen richly laden
vessels, belonging to King George's subjects. And,
sometimes, a rosy little school-boy climbed into our
chair, and sat staring, with wide-open eyes, at the
alligator, the rattlesnake, and the other curiosities
of the barber's shop. His mother had sent him, with
sixpence in his hand, to get his glossy curls cropped
off. The incidents of the Revolution plentifully supplied
the barber's customers with topics of conversation.
They talked sorrowfully of the death of General
Montgomery, and the failure of our troops to take
Quebec; for the New Englanders were now as
anxious to get Canada from the English, as they had
formerly been to conquer it from the French.</p>

<p>"But, very soon," said Grandfather, "came news
from Philadelphia, the most important that America
had ever heard of. On the 4th of July, 1776, Congress
had signed the Declaration of Independence.
The thirteen colonies were now free and independent
states. Dark as our prospects were, the inhabitants
welcomed these glorious tidings, and resolved to perish,
rather than again bear the yoke of England!"</p>

<p>"And I would perish too!" cried Charley.</p>

<p>"It was a great day&#8212;a glorious deed!" said
Laurence, coloring high with enthusiasm. "And,
Grandfather, I love to think that the sages in Congress
showed themselves as bold and true as the
soldiers in the field. For it must have required
more courage to sign the Declaration of Independence,
than to fight the enemy in battle."</p>

<p>Grandfather acquiesced in Laurence's view of
the matter. He then touched briefly and hastily
upon the prominent events of the Revolution. The
thunder-storm of war had now rolled southward, and
did not again burst upon Massachusetts, where its
first fury had been felt. But she contributed her
full share to the success of the contest. Wherever
a battle was fought&#8212;whether at Long Island, White
Plains, Trenton, Princeton, Brandywine, or German-town&#8212;some
of her brave sons were found slain
upon the field.</p>

<p>In October, 1777, General Burgoyne surrendered
his army, at Saratoga, to the American general,
Gates. The captured troops were sent to Massachusetts.
Not long afterwards, Doctor Franklin
and other American commissioners made a treaty at
Paris, by which France bound herself to assist our
countrymen. The gallant Lafayette was already
fighting for our freedom, by the side of Washington.
In 1778, a French fleet, commanded by Count
d'Estaing, spent a considerable time in Boston Harbor.
It marks the vicissitudes of human affairs,
that the French, our ancient enemies, should come
hither as comrades and brethren, and that kindred
England should be our foe.</p>

<p>"While the war was raging in the Middle and
Southern States," proceeded Grandfather, "Massachusetts
had leisure to settle a new constitution of
government, instead of the royal charter. This was
done in 1780. In the same year, John Hancock,
who had been president of Congress, was chosen
governor of the state. He was the first whom the
people had elected, since the days of old Simon
Bradstreet."</p>

<p>"But, Grandfather, who had been governor since
the British were driven away?" inquired Laurence.
"General Gage and Sir William Howe were the
last whom you have told us of."</p>

<p>"There had been no governor for the last four
years," replied Grandfather. "Massachusetts had
been ruled by the legislature, to whom the people
paid obedience of their own accord. It is one of the
most remarkable circumstances in our history, that,
when the charter government was overthrown by the
war, no anarchy, nor the slightest confusion ensued.
This was a great honor to the people. But now,
Hancock was proclaimed governor by sound of trumpet;
and there was again a settled government."</p>

<p>Grandfather again adverted to the progress of the
war. In 1781, General Greene drove the British
from the Southern States. In October, of the same
year, General Washington compelled Lord Cornwallis
to surrender his army, at Yorktown, in Virginia.
This was the last great event of the revolutionary
contest. King George and his ministers perceived,
that all the might of England could not compel
America to renew her allegiance to the crown.
After a great deal of discussion, a treaty of peace
was signed, in September, 1783.</p>

<p>"Now, at last," said Grandfather, "after weary
years of war, the regiments of Massachusetts returned
in peace to their families. Now, the stately
and dignified leaders, such as General Lincoln
and General Knox, with their pondered hair and
their uniforms of blue and buff, were seen moving
about the streets."</p>

<p>"And little boys ran after them, I suppose," remarked
Charley; "and the grown people bowed
respectfully."</p>

<p>"They deserved respect, for they were good men,
as well as brave," answered Grandfather. "Now,
too, the inferior officers and privates came home, to
seek some peaceful occupation. Their friends remembered
them as slender and smooth-cheeked
young men; but they returned with the erect and
rigid mien of disciplined soldiers. Some hobbled
on crutches and wooden legs; others had received
wounds, which were still rankling in their breasts.
Many, alas! had fallen in battle, and perhaps were
left unburied on the bloody field."</p>

<p>"The country must have been sick of war," observed
Laurence.</p>

<p>"One would have thought so," said Grandfather.
"Yet only two or three years elapsed, before the
folly of some misguided men caused another mustering
of soldiers. This affair was called Shays' War,
because a Captain Shays was the chief leader of the
insurgents."</p>

<p>"O Grandfather, don't let there be another
war!" cried little Alice, piteously.</p>

<p>Grandfather comforted his dear little girl, by
assuring her that there was no great mischief done.
Shays's War happened in the latter part of 1786,
and the beginning of the following year. Its principal
cause was the badness of the times. The
State of Massachusetts, in its public capacity, was
very much in debt. So, likewise, were many of
the people. An insurrection took place, the object
of which seems to have been, to interrupt the course
of law, and get rid of debts and taxes.</p>

<p>James Bowdoin, a good and able man, was now
governor of Massachusetts. He sent General Lincoln,
at the head of four thousand men, to put down
the insurrection. This general, who had fought
through several hard campaigns in the Revolution,
managed matters like an old soldier, and totally
defeated the rebels, at the expense of very little
blood.</p>

<p>"There is but one more public event to be
recorded in the history of our chair," proceeded
Grandfather. "In the year 1794, Samuel Adams
was elected governor of Massachusetts. I have
told you what a distinguished patriot he was, and
how much he resembled the stern old Puritans.
Could the ancient freemen of Massachusetts, who
lived in the days of the first charter, have arisen
from their graves, they would probably have voted
for Samuel Adams to be governor."</p>

<p>"Well, Grandfather, I hope he sat in our
chair!" said Clara.</p>

<p>"He did," replied Grandfather. "He had
long been in the habit of visiting the barber's shop,
where our venerable chair, philosophically forgetful
of its former dignities, had now spent nearly eighteen
not uncomfortable years. Such a remarkable
piece of furniture, so evidently a relic of long-departed
times, could not escape the notice of Samuel
Adams. He made minute researches into its history,
and ascertained what a succession of excellent
and famous people had occupied it."</p>

<p>"How did he find it out?" asked Charley. "For
I suppose the chair could not tell its own history."</p>

<p>"There used to be a vast collection of ancient
letters and other documents, in the tower of the old
South Church," answered Grandfather. "Perhaps
the history of our chair was contained among these.
At all events, Samuel Adams appears to have been
well acquainted with it. When he became governor,
he felt that he could have no more honorable seat,
than that which had been the ancient Chair of State.
He therefore purchased it for a trifle, and filled it
worthily for three years, as governor of Massachusetts."</p>

<p>"And what next?" asked Charley.</p>

<p>"That is all," said Grandfather, heaving a sigh;
for he could not help being a little sad, at the thought
that his stories must close here. "Samuel Adams
died in 1803, at the age of above threescore and
ten. He was a great patriot but a poor man. At
his death, he left scarcely property enough to pay
the expenses of his funeral. This precious chair,
among his other effects, was sold at auction; and
your Grandfather, who was then in the strength of
his years, became the purchaser."</p>

<p>Laurence, with a mind full of thoughts, that
struggled for expression, but could find none, looked
steadfastly at the chair.</p>

<p>He had now learned all its history, yet was not
satisfied.</p>

<p>"Oh, how I wish that the chair could speak!"
cried he. "After its long intercourse with mankind&#8212;after
looking upon the world for ages&#8212;what
lessons of golden wisdom it might utter! It might
teach a private person how to lead a good and happy
life&#8212;or a statesman how to make his country prosperous!"</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter XI</head>

<p>Grandfather was struck by Laurence's idea, that
the historic chair should utter a voice, and thus pour
forth the collected wisdom of two centuries. The
old gentleman had once possessed no inconsiderable
share of fancy; and, even now, its fading sunshine
occasionally glimmered among his more sombre reflections.</p>

<p>As the history of the chair had exhausted all his
facts, Grandfather determined to have recourse to
fable. So, after warning the children that they must
not mistake this story for a true one, he related what
we shall call,&#8212;</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>GRANDFATHER'S DREAM</head>

<p>Laurence and Clara, where were you last night?
Where were you, Charley, and dear little Alice?
You had all gone to rest, and left old Grandfather
to meditate alone, in his great chair. The lamp had
grown so dim, that its light hardly illuminated the
alabaster shade. The wood fire had crumbled into
heavy embers, among which the little flames danced,
and quivered, and sported about, like fairies.</p>

<p>And here sat Grandfather, all by himself. He
knew that it was bedtime; yet he could not help
longing to hear your merry voices, or to hold a comfortable
chat with some old friend; because then his
pillow would be visited by pleasant dreams. But,
as neither children nor friends were at hand, Grandfather
leaned back in the great chair, and closed his
eyes, for the sake of meditating more profoundly.</p>

<p>And, when Grandfather's meditations had grown
very profound indeed, he fancied that he heard a
sound over his head, as if somebody were preparing
to speak.</p>

<p>"Hem!" it said, in a dry, husky tone. "H-e-m!
Hem!"</p>

<p>As Grandfather did not know that any person was
in the room, he started up in great surprise, and
peeped hither and thither, behind the chair, and
into the recess by the fireside, and at the dark nook
yonder, near the bookcase. Nobody could he see.</p>

<p>"Pooh!" said Grandfather to himself, "I must
have been dreaming."</p>

<p>But, just as he was going to resume his seat,
Grandfather happened to look at the great chair.
The rays of fire-light were flickering upon it in such
a manner that it really seemed as if its oaken frame
were all alive. What! Did it not move its elbow?
There, too! It certainly lifted one of its ponderous
fore-legs, as if it had a notion of drawing itself a little
nearer to the fire. Meanwhile, the lion's head nodded
at Grandfather, with as polite and sociable a
look as a lion's visage, carved in oak, could possibly
be expected to assume. Well, this is strange!</p>

<p>"Good evening, my old friend," said the dry and
husky voice, now a little clearer than before. "We
have been intimately acquainted so long, that I think
it high time we have a chat together."</p>

<p>Grandfather was looking straight at the lion's
head, and could not be mistaken in supposing that
it moved its lips. So here the mystery was all
explained.</p>

<p>"I was not aware," said Grandfather, with a civil
salutation to his oaken companion, "that you possessed
the faculty of speech. Otherwise, I should
often have been glad to converse with such a solid,
useful, and substantial, if not brilliant member of
society."</p>

<p>"Oh!" replied the ancient chair, in a quiet and
easy tone, for it had now cleared its throat of the
dust of ages. "I am naturally a silent and incommunicative
sort of character. Once or twice, in the
course of a century, I unclose my lips. When the
gentle Lady Arbella departed this life, I uttered a
groan. When the honest mint-master weighed his
plump daughter against the pine-tree shillings, I
chuckled audibly at the joke. When old Simon
Bradstreet took the place of the tyrant Andros, I
joined in the general huzza, and capered upon my
wooden legs, for joy. To be sure, the bystanders
were so fully occupied with their own feelings, that
my sympathy was quite unnoticed."</p>

<p>"And have you often held a private chat with your
friends?" asked Grandfather.</p>

<p>"Not often," answered the chair. "I once
talked with Sir William Phips, and communicated
my ideas about the witchcraft delusion. Cotton
Mather had several conversations with me, and derived
great benefit from my historical reminiscences.
In the days of the Stamp Act, I whispered in the
ear of Hutchinson, bidding him to remember what
stock his countrymen were descended of, and to
think whether the spirit of their forefathers had utterly
departed from them. The last man whom I
favored with a colloquy, was that stout old republican,
Samuel Adams."</p>

<p>"And how happens it," inquired Grandfather,
"that there is no record nor tradition of your conversational
abilities? It is an uncommon thing to
meet with a chair that can talk."</p>

<p>"Why, to tell you the truth," said the chair, giving
itself a hitch nearer to the hearth, "I am not
apt to choose the most suitable moments for unclosing
my lips. Sometimes I have inconsiderately begun
to speak, when my occupant, lolling back in my
arms, was inclined to take an after-dinner nap. Or,
perhaps, the impulse to talk may be felt at midnight,
when the lamp burns dim, and the fire crumbles into
decay, and the studious or thoughtful man finds that
his brain is in a mist. Oftenest, I have unwisely
uttered my wisdom in the ears of sick persons, when
the inquietude of fever made them toss about, upon
my cushion. And so it happens, that, though my
words make a pretty strong impression at the moment,
yet my auditors invariably remember them only
as a dream. I should not wonder if you, my excellent
friend, were to do the same, to-morrow morning."</p>

<p>"Nor I either," thought Grandfather to himself.
However, he thanked this respectable old chair for
beginning the conversation, and begged to know
whether it had any thing particular to communicate.</p>

<p>"I have been listening attentively to your narrative
of my adventures," replied the chair, "and it
must be owned, that your correctness entitles you to
be held up as a pattern to biographers. Nevertheless,
there are a few omissions, which I should be
glad to see supplied. For instance, you make no
mention of the good knight, Sir Richard Saltonstall,
nor of the famous Hugh Peters, nor of those old
regicide judges, Whalley, Goffe, and Dixwell. Yet
I have borne the weight of all these distinguished
characters, at one time or another."</p>

<p>Grandfather promised amendment, if ever he
should have an opportunity to repeat his narrative.
The good old chair, which still seemed to retain a
due regard for outward appearance, then reminded
him how long a time had passed, since it had been
provided with a new cushion. It likewise expressed
the opinion, that the oaken figures on its back would
show to much better advantage, by the aid of a little
varnish.</p>

<p>"And I have had a complaint in this joint," continued
the chair, endeavoring to lift one of its legs,
"ever since Charley trundled his wheelbarrow
against me."</p>

<p>"It shall be attended to," said Grandfather.
"And now, venerable chair, I have a favor to solicit.
During an existence of more than two centuries, you
have had a familiar intercourse with men who were
esteemed the wisest of their day. Doubtless, with
your capacious understanding, you have treasured
up many an invaluable lesson of wisdom. You certainly
have had time enough to guess the riddle of
life. Tell us poor mortals, then, how we may be
happy!"</p>

<p>The lion's head fixed its eyes thoughtfully upon
the fire, and the whole chair assumed an aspect of
deep meditation. Finally, it beckoned to Grandfather
with its elbow, and made a step sideways towards
him, as if it had a very important secret to
communicate.</p>

<p>"As long as I have stood in the midst of human
affairs," said the chair, with a very oracular enunciation,
"I have constantly observed that JUSTICE,
TRUTH, and LOVE, are the chief ingredients of every
happy life."</p>

<p>"Justice, Truth, and Love!" exclaimed Grandfather.
"We need not exist two centuries to find
out that these qualities are essential to our happiness.
This is no secret. Every human being is born with
the instinctive knowledge of it."</p>

<p>"Ah!" cried the chair, drawing back in surprise.
"From what I have observed of the dealings of man
with man, and nation with nation, I never should
have suspected that they knew this all-important secret.
And, with this eternal lesson written in your
soul, do you ask me to sift new wisdom for you, out
of my petty existence of two or three centuries?"</p>

<p>"But, my dear chair&#8212;" said Grandfather.</p>

<p>"Not a word more," interrupted the chair; "here
I close my lips for the next hundred years. At the
end of that period, if I shall have discovered any
new precepts of happiness, better than what Heaven
has already taught you, they shall assuredly be given
to the world."</p>

<p>In the energy of its utterance, the oaken chair
seemed to stamp its foot, and trod, (we hope unintentionally)
upon Grandfather's toe. The old gentleman
started, and found that he had been asleep in
the great chair, and that his heavy walking stick had
fallen down across his foot.</p>

<lb />

<p>"Grandfather," cried little Alice, clapping her
hands, "you must dream a new dream, every night,
about our chair!"</p>

<p>Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, said the same.
But the good old gentleman shook his head, and declared
that here ended the history, real or fabulous,
of <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Grandfather's Chair</hi>.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Biographical Stories</head>

<p>BENJAMIN WEST,<lb />
SIR ISAAC NEWTON,<lb />
SAMUEL JOHNSON<lb />
OLIVER CROMWELL,<lb />
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,<lb />
QUEEN CHRISTINA.</p>

<quote rend="display">
<p>This small volume, and others of a similar character, from the
same hand, have not been composed without a deep sense of
responsibility. The author regards children as sacred, and would
not, for the world, cast any thing into the fountain of a young
heart, that might embitter and pollute its waters. And, even in
point of the reputation to be aimed at, juvenile literature is as
well worth cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed in
pleasing his little readers, may hope to be remembered by them
till their own old age&#8212;a far longer period of literary existence
than is generally attained, by those who seek immortality from
the judgments of full grown men.</p>
</quote>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter I</head>

<p>When Edward Temple was about eight or nine
years old, he was afflicted with a disorder of the eyes.
It was so severe, and his sight was naturally so delicate,
that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest
the boy should become totally blind. He therefore
gave strict directions to keep him in a darkened
chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray
of the blessed light of Heaven could be suffered to
visit the poor lad.</p>

<p>This was a sad thing for Edward! It was just
the same as if there were to be no more sunshine,
nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor light
of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue
perhaps for months,&#8212;a longer and drearier night
than that which voyagers are compelled to endure,
when their ship is ice-bound, throughout the winter,
in the Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother,
his brother George, and the sweet face of little Emily
Robinson, must all vanish, and leave him in utter
darkness and solitude. Their voices and footsteps,
it is true, would be heard around him; he would feel
his mother's embrace, and the kind pressure of all
their hands; but still it would seem as if they were
a thousand miles away.</p>

<p>And then his studies! They were to be entirely
given up. This was another grievous trial; for Edward's
memory hardly went back to the period when
he had not known how to read. Many and many a
holiday had he spent at his book, poring over its
pages until the deepening twilight confused the print,
and made all the letters run into long words. Then
would he press his hands across his eyes, and wonder
why they pained him so, and, when the candles
were lighted, what was the reason that they burned
so dimly, like the moon in a foggy night. Poor little
fellow! So far as his eyes were concerned, he
was already an old man, and needed a pair of spectacles
almost as much as his own grandfather did.</p>

<p>And now, alas! the time was come, when even
grandfather's spectacles could not have assisted Edward
to read. After a few bitter tears, which only
pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to
the surgeon's orders. His eyes were bandaged, and,
with his mother on one side, and his little friend
Emily on the other, he was led into a darkened
chamber.</p>

<p>"Mother, I shall be very miserable," said Edward,
sobbing.</p>

<p>"Oh, no, my dear child!" replied his mother,
cheerfully. "Your eyesight was a precious gift of
Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be
miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of
regaining it. There are other enjoyments, besides
what come to us through our eyes."</p>

<p>"None that are worth having," said Edward.</p>

<p>"Ah! but you will not think so long," rejoined
Mrs. Temple, with tenderness. "All of us&#8212;your
father, and myself, and George, and our sweet Emily&#8212;will
try to find occupation and amusement for
you. We will use all our eyes to make you happy.
Will not they be better than a single pair?"</p>

<p>"I will sit by you all day long," said Emily, in
her low, sweet voice, putting her hand into that of
Edward.</p>

<p>"And so will I, Ned," said George, his elder
brother,&#8212;"school time and all, if my father will
permit me."</p>

<p>Edward's brother George was three or four years
older than himself, a fine, hardy lad, of a bold and
ardent temper. He was the leader of his comrades
in all their enterprises and amusements. As to his
proficiency at study, there was not much to be said.
He had sense and ability enough to have made himself
a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things
to do, that he seldom took hold of a book with his
whole heart. So fond was George of boisterous
sports and exercises, that it was really a great token
of affection and sympathy, when he offered to sit all
day long in a dark chamber, with his poor brother
Edward.</p>

<p>As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter
of one of Mr. Temple's dearest friends. Ever since
her mother went to Heaven, (which was soon after
Emily's birth,) the little girl had dwelt in the household
where we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple
seemed to love her as well as their own children; for
they had no daughter except Emily; nor would the
boys have known the blessing of a sister, had not this
gentle stranger come to teach them what it was. If
I could show you Emily's face, with her dark hair
smoothed away from her forehead, you would be
pleased with her look of simplicity and loving-kindness,
but might think that she was somewhat too
grave for a child of seven years old. But you would
not love her the less for that.</p>

<p>So brother George, and this loving little girl,
were to be Edward's companions and playmates,
while he should be kept prisoner in the dark chamber.
When the first bitterness of his grief was
over, he began to feel that there might be some
comforts and enjoyments in life, even for a boy
whose eyes were covered with a bandage.</p>

<p>"I thank you, dear mother," said he, with only
a few sobs, "and you, Emily; and you too, George.
You will all be very kind to me, I know. And my
father&#8212;will not he come and see me, every day?"</p>

<p>"Yes, my dear boy," said Mr. Temple; for,
though invisible to Edward, he was standing close
beside him. "I will spend some hours of every day
with you. And as I have often amused you by relating
stories and adventures, while you had the use
of your eyes, I can do the same, now that you are
unable to read. Will this please you, Edward?"</p>

<p>"Oh, very much!" replied Edward.</p>

<p>"Well then," said his father, "this evening we
will begin the series of Biographical Stories, which
I promised you some time ago."</p>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter II</head>

<p>When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward
considerably revived in spirits, and disposed to be resigned
to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of the
boy, as it was dimly seen by the fire-light, reclining
in a well stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable
that many people might have envied him.
When a man's eyes have grown old with gazing at
the ways of the world, it does not seem such a terrible
misfortune to have them bandaged.</p>

<p>Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward's side, with
the air of an accomplished nurse. As well as the
duskiness of the chamber would permit, she watched
all his motions, and each varying expression of his
face, and tried to anticipate her patient's wishes, before
his tongue could utter them. Yet it was noticeable,
that the child manifested an indescribable awe
and disquietude, whenever she fixed her eyes on the
bandage; for to her simple and affectionate heart, it
seemed as if her dear friend Edward was separated
from her, because she could not see his eyes. A
friend's eyes tell us many things, which could never
be spoken by the tongue.</p>

<p>George, likewise, looked awkward and confused,
as stout and healthy boys are accustomed to do, in
the society of the sick or afflicted. Never having
felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not
knowing how to sympathize with the sufferings of
others.</p>

<p>"Well, my dear Edward," inquired Mrs. Temple,
"is your chair quite comfortable? and has your little
nurse provided for all your wants? If so, your
father is ready to begin his stories."</p>

<p>"Oh, I am very well now," answered Edward,
with a faint smile. "And my ears have not forsaken
me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So,
pray, dear father, begin!"</p>

<p>It was Mr. Temple's design to tell the children a
series of true stories, the incidents of which should
be taken from the childhood and early life of eminent
people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward,
and Emily, into closer acquaintance with the
famous persons who have lived in other times, by
showing that they also had been children once. Although
Mr. Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing
but what was founded on fact, yet he felt himself at
liberty to clothe the incidents of his narrative in a
new coloring, so that his auditors might understand
them the better.</p>

<p>"My first story," said he, "shall be about a
painter of pictures."</p>

<p>"Dear me!" cried Edward, with a sigh. "I
am afraid I shall never look at pictures any more."</p>

<p>"We will hope for the best," answered his father.
"In the mean time, you must try to see things within
your own mind."</p>

<p>Mr. Temple then began the following story:</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>BENJAMIN WEST</head>

<p><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Born</hi> 1738. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Died</hi> 1820.</p>

<p>In the year 1738, there came into the world, in
the town of Springfield, Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant,
from whom his parents and neighbors looked
for wonderful things. A famous preacher of the
Society of Friends had prophesied about little Ben,
and foretold that he would be one of the most remarkable
characters that had appeared on earth since the
days of William Penn. On this account, the eyes
of many people were fixed upon the boy. Some of
his ancestors had won great renown in the old wars
of England and France; but it was probably expected
that Ben would become a preacher, and
would convert multitudes to the peaceful doctrines
of the Quakers. Friend West and his wife were
thought to be very fortunate in having such a son.</p>

<p>Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years, without
doing any thing that was worthy to be told in
history. But, one summer afternoon, in his seventh
year, his mother put a fan into his hand, and bade
him keep the flies away from the face of a little babe,
who lay fast asleep in the cradle. She then left the
room.</p>

<p>The boy waved the fan to-and-fro, and drove away
the buzzing flies whenever they had the impertinence
to come near the baby's face. When they had all
flown out of the window, or into distant parts of the
room, he bent over the cradle, and delighted himself
with gazing at the sleeping infant. It was, indeed,
a very pretty sight. The little personage in the
cradle slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands
under its chin, looking as full of blissful quiet as if
angels were singing lullabies in its ear. Indeed, it
must have been dreaming about Heaven; for, while
Ben stooped over the cradle, the little baby smiled.</p>

<p>"How beautiful she looks!" said Ben to himself.
"What a pity it is, that such a pretty smile should
not last forever!"</p>

<p>Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never
heard of that wonderful art, by which a look, that
appears and vanishes in a moment, may be made to
last for hundreds of years. But, though nobody had
told him of such an art, he may be said to have invented
it for himself. On a table, near at hand,
there were pens and paper, and ink of two colors,
black and red. The boy seized a pen and sheet of
paper, and kneeling down beside the cradle, began
to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was
busied in this manner, he heard his mother's step
approaching, and hastily tried to conceal the paper.</p>

<p>"Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?"
inquired his mother, observing marks of confusion in
his face.</p>

<p>At first, Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as
if there might be something wrong in stealing the
baby's face, and putting it upon a sheet of paper.
However, as his mother insisted, he finally put the
sketch into her hand, and then hung his head, expecting
to be well scolded. But when the good lady
saw what was on the paper, in lines of red and black
ink, she uttered a scream of surprise and joy.</p>

<p>"Bless me!" cried she. "It is a picture of
little Sally!"</p>

<p>And then she threw her arms round our friend
Benjamin, and kissed him so tenderly, that he never
afterwards was afraid to show his performances to
his mother.</p>

<p>As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast
delight in looking at the hues and forms of nature.
For instance, he was greatly pleased with the blue
violets of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the
scarlet cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline
of the year, when the woods were variegated
with all the colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to
desire nothing better than to gaze at them from
morn till night. The purple and golden clouds of
sunset were a joy to him. And he was continually
endeavoring to draw the figures of trees, men, mountains,
houses, cattle, geese, ducks, and turkeys, with
a piece of chalk, on barn-doors, or on the floor.</p>

<p>In these old times, the Mohawk Indians were
still numerous in Pennsylvania. Every year a party
of them used to pay a visit to Springfield, because
the wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood
there. These wild men grew fond of little Ben,
and made him very happy by giving him some of
the red and yellow paint with which they were
accustomed to adorn their faces. His mother, too,
presented him with a piece of indigo. Thus he now
had three colors,&#8212;red, blue, and yellow&#8212;and could
manufacture green, by mixing the yellow with the
blue. Our friend Ben was overjoyed, and doubtless
showed his gratitude to the Indians by taking their
likenesses, in the strange dresses which they wore,
with feathers, tomahawks, and bows and arrows.</p>

<p>But, all this time, the young artist had no paint-brushes,
nor were there any to be bought, unless he
had sent to Philadelphia on purpose. However, he
was a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture
paint-brushes for himself. With this design, he
laid hold upon&#8212;what do you think? why, upon a
respectable old black cat, who was sleeping quietly
by the fireside.</p>

<p>"Puss," said little Ben to the cat, "pray give me
some of the fur from the tip of thy tail!"</p>

<p>Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet
Ben was determined to have the fur, whether she were
willing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal for the
fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the
boy was armed with his mother's scissors, and very
dexterously clipped off fur enough to make a paint-brush.
This was of so much use to him, that he applied
to Madam Puss again and again, until her
warm coat of fur had become so thin and ragged,
that she could hardly keep comfortable through the
winter. Poor thing! she was forced to creep close
into the chimney-corner, and eyed Ben with a very
rueful physiognomy. But Ben considered it more
necessary that he should have paint-brushes, than
that Puss should be warm.</p>

<p>About this period, Friend West received a visit
from Mr. Pennington, a merchant of Philadelphia,
who was likewise a member of the Society of Friends.
The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to
see it ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs,
and of birds with beautiful plumage, and of the wild
flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was ever
seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.</p>

<p>"Why, Friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia
merchant, "what has possessed thee to cover thy
walls with all these pictures? Where on earth didst
thou get them?"</p>

<p>Then Friend West explained, that all these
pictures were painted by little Ben, with no better
materials than red and yellow ochre and a piece of
indigo, and with brushes made of the black cat's fur.</p>

<p>"Verily," said Mr. Pennington, "the boy hath
a wonderful faculty. Some of our friends might
look upon these matters as vanity; but little Benjamin
appears to have been born a painter; and Providence
is wiser than we are."</p>

<p>The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head,
and evidently considered him a wonderful boy.
When his parents saw how much their son's performances
were admired, they no doubt remembered
the prophecy of the old Quaker preacher, respecting
Ben's future eminence. Yet they could not understand
how he was ever to become a very great and
useful man, merely by making pictures.</p>

<p>One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington's return
to Philadelphia, a package arrived at Springfield,
directed to our little friend Ben.</p>

<p>"What can it possibly be?" thought Ben, when
it was put into his hands. "Who can have sent me
such a great square package as this!"</p>

<p>On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped
it, behold! there was a paint-box, with a great
many cakes of paint, and brushes of various sizes.
It was the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There
were likewise several squares of canvas, such as
artists use for painting pictures upon, and, in addition
to all these treasures, some beautiful engravings
of landscapes. These were the first pictures that
Ben had ever seen, except those of his own drawing.</p>

<p>What a joyful evening was this for the little artist!
At bedtime, he put the paint-box under his pillow,
and got hardly a wink of sleep; for, all night long,
his fancy was painting pictures in the darkness. In
the morning, he hurried to the garret, and was seen
no more till the dinner-hour; nor did he give himself
time to eat more than a mouthful or two of food,
before he hurried back to the garret again. The
next day, and the next, he was just as busy as ever;
until at last his mother thought it time to ascertain
what he was about. She accordingly followed him
to the garret.</p>

<p>On opening the door, the first object that presented
itself to her eyes was our friend Benjamin, giving the
last touches to a beautiful picture. He had copied
portions of two of the engravings, and made one picture
out of both, with such admirable skill that it
was far more beautiful than the originals. The
grass, the trees, the water, the sky, and the houses,
were all painted in their proper colors. There, too,
was the sunshine and the shadow, looking as natural
as life.</p>

<p>"My dear child, thou hast done wonders!" cried
his mother.</p>

<p>The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And
well might she be proud of her boy; for there were
touches in this picture, which old artists, who had
spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been
ashamed of. Many a year afterwards, this wonderful
production was exhibited at the Royal Academy
in London.</p>

<p>When Benjamin was quite a large lad, he was
sent to school at Philadelphia. Not long after his
arrival, he had a slight attack of fever, which confined
him to his bed. The light, which would otherwise
have disturbed him, was excluded from his
chamber by means of closed wooden shutters. At
first, it appeared so totally dark, that Ben could not
distinguish any object in the room. By degrees,
however, his eyes became accustomed to the scanty
light.</p>

<p>He was lying on his back, looking up towards the
ceiling, when suddenly he beheld the dim apparition
of a white cow, moving slowly over his head! Ben
started, and rubbed his eyes, in the greatest amazement.</p>

<p>"What can this mean?" thought he.</p>

<p>The white cow disappeared; and next came several
pigs, who trotted along the ceiling, and vanished
into the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike did
these grunters look, that Ben almost seemed to hear
them squeak.</p>

<p>"Well, this is very strange!" said Ben to himself.</p>

<p>When the people of the house came to see him,
Benjamin told them of the marvellous circumstance
which had occurred. But they would not believe
him.</p>

<p>"Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses!"
cried they. "How is it possible that a white cow
and a litter of pigs should be visible on the ceiling
of a dark chamber?"</p>

<p>Ben, however, had great confidence in his own
eyesight, and was determined to search the mystery
to the bottom. For this purpose, when he was again
left alone, he got out of bed, and examined the window-shutters.
He soon perceived a small chink in
one of them, through which a ray of light found its
passage, and rested upon the ceiling. Now the
science of optics will inform us, that the pictures of
the white cow and the pigs, and of other objects out
of doors, came into the dark chamber, through this
narrow chink, and were painted over Benjamin's
head. It is greatly to his credit, that he discovered
the scientific principle of this phenomenon, and, by
means of it, constructed a Camera Obscura, or Magic
Lantern, out of a hollow box. This was of great
advantage to him in drawing landscapes.</p>

<p>Well; time went on, and Benjamin continued to
draw and paint pictures, until he had now reached
the age when it was proper that he should choose a
business for life. His father and mother were in
considerable perplexity about him. According to
the ideas of the Quakers it is not right for people to
spend their lives in occupations that are of no real
and sensible advantage to the world. Now, what
advantage could the world expect from Benjamin's
pictures? This was a difficult question; and, in
order to set their minds at rest, his parents determined
to consult the preachers and wise men of their
society. Accordingly, they all assembled in the
meeting-house, and discussed the matter from beginning
to end.</p>

<p>Finally, they came to a very wise decision. It
seemed so evident that Providence had created Benjamin
to be a painter, and had given him abilities
which would be thrown away in any other business,
that the Quakers resolved not to oppose his inclination.
They even acknowledged that the sight of a
beautiful picture might convey instruction to the
mind, and might benefit the heart, as much as a
good book or a wise discourse. They therefore committed
the youth to the direction of God, being well
assured that he best knew what was his proper sphere
of usefulness. The old men laid their hands upon
Benjamin's head, and gave him their blessing, and
the women kissed him affectionately. All consented
that he should go forth into the world, and learn to
be a painter, by studying the best pictures of ancient
and modern times.</p>

<p>So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his
parents, and his native woods and streams, and the
good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians who
had given him his first colors,&#8212;he left all the
places and persons whom he had hitherto known,&#8212;and
returned to them no more. He went first to
Philadelphia, and afterwards to Europe. Here he
was noticed by many great people, but retained all
the sobriety and simplicity which he had learned
among the Quakers. It is related of him, that,
when he was presented at the court of the Prince of
Parma, he kept his hat upon his head, even while
kissing the Prince's hand.</p>

<p>When he was twenty-five years old, he went to
London, and established himself there as an artist.
In due course of time, he acquired great fame by
his pictures, and was made chief painter to King
George the Third, and President of the Royal Academy
of Arts. When the Quakers of Pennsylvania
heard of his success, they felt that the prophecy
of the old preacher, as to little Ben's future eminence,
was now accomplished. It is true, they
shook their heads at his pictures of battle and bloodshed,
such as the Death of Wolfe,&#8212;thinking that
these terrible scenes should not be held up to the
admiration of the world.</p>

<p>But they approved of the great paintings in which
he represented the miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer
of Mankind. King George employed him
to adorn a large and beautiful chapel, at Windsor
Castle, with pictures of these sacred subjects. He
likewise painted a magnificent picture of Christ
Healing the Sick, which he gave to the Hospital at
Philadelphia. It was exhibited to the public, and
produced so much profit that the Hospital was enlarged,
so as to accommodate thirty more patients.
If Benjamin West had done no other good deed than
this, yet it would have been enough to entitle him to
an honorable remembrance forever. At this very
day, there are thirty poor people in the Hospital,
who owe all their comforts to that same picture.</p>

<p>We shall mention only a single incident more.
The picture of Christ Healing the Sick was exhibited
at the Royal Academy in London, where it covered
a vast space, and displayed a multitude of figures as
large as life. On the wall, close beside this admirable
picture, hung a small and faded landscape. It
was the same that little Ben had painted in his
father's garret, after receiving the paint-box and
engravings from good Mr. Pennington.</p>

<p>He lived many years, in peace and honor, and
died in 1820, at the age of eighty-two. The story
of his life is almost as wonderful as a fairy tale; for
there are few stranger transformations than that of a
little unknown Quaker boy, in the wilds of America,
into the most distinguished English painter of his
day. Let us each make the best use of our natural
abilities, as Benjamin West did; and with the blessing
of Providence, we shall arrive at some good end.
As for fame, it is but little matter whether we
acquire it or not.</p>

<lb />

<p>"Thank you for the story, my dear father," said
Edward, when it was finished. "Do you know, that
it seems as if I could see things without the help of
my eyes? While you were speaking, I have seen
little Ben, and the baby in its cradle, and the Indians,
and the white cow and the pigs, and kind Mr. Pennington,
and all the good old Quakers, almost as
plainly as if they were in this very room."</p>

<p>"It is because your attention was not disturbed
by outward objects," replied Mr. Temple. "People,
when deprived of sight, often have more vivid ideas
than those who possess the perfect use of their eyes.
I will venture to say that George has not attended
to the story quite so closely."</p>

<p>"No indeed," said George, "but it was a very
pretty story for all that. How I should have laughed
to see Ben making a paint-brush out of the black
cat's tail! I intend to try the experiment with
Emily's kitten."</p>

<p>"Oh, no, no, George!" cried Emily, earnestly.
"My kitten cannot spare her tail."</p>

<p>Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him
to retire to bed. When the family bade him good
night, he turned his face towards them, looking very
loth to part.</p>

<p>"I shall not know when morning comes," said he
sorrowfully. "And besides I want to hear your
voices all the time; for, when nobody is speaking, it
seems as if I were alone in a dark world!"</p>

<p>"You must have faith, my dear child," replied
his mother. "Faith is the soul's eyesight; and
when we possess it, the world is never dark nor
lonely."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter III</head>

<p>The next day, Edward began to get accustomed
to his new condition of life. Once, indeed, when
his parents were out of the way, and only Emily
was left to take care of him, he could not resist the
temptation to thrust aside the bandage, and peep at
the anxious face of his little nurse. But, in spite of
the dimness of the chamber, the experiment caused
him so much pain, that he felt no inclination to take
another look. So, with a deep sigh, he resigned
himself to his fate.</p>

<p>"Emily, pray talk to me!" said he, somewhat
impatiently.</p>

<p>Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl,
and did not possess that liveliness of disposition
which renders some children such excellent companions.
She seldom laughed, and had not the
faculty of making many words about small matters.
But the love and earnestness of her heart taught her
how to amuse poor Edward, in his darkness. She
put her knitting-work into his hands.</p>

<p>"You must learn how to knit," said she.</p>

<p>"What! without using my eyes?" cried Edward.</p>

<p>"I can knit with my eyes shut," replied Emily.</p>

<p>Then, with her own little hands, she guided Edward's
fingers, while he set about this new occupation.
So awkward were his first attempts, that any other
little girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily
preserved her gravity, and showed the utmost patience
in taking up the innumerable stitches which
he let down. In the course of an hour or two, his
progress was quite encouraging.</p>

<p>When evening came, Edward acknowledged that
the day had been far less wearisome than he anticipated.
But he was glad, nevertheless, when his
father and mother, and George and Emily, all
took their seats around his chair. He put out his
hand to grasp each of their hands, and smiled with
a very bright expression upon his lips.</p>

<p>"Now I can see you all, with my mind's eye,"
said he; "and now, father, pray tell us another
story."</p>

<p>So Mr. Temple began.</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>SIR ISAAC NEWTON</head>

<p><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Born</hi> 1642. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Died</hi> 1727.</p>

<p>On Christmas-day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton
was born, at the small village of Woolsthorpe, in
England. Little did his mother think, when she
beheld her new-born babe, that he was destined to
explain many matters which had been a mystery
ever since the creation of the world.</p>

<p>Isaac's father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married
again to a clergyman, and went to reside at
North Witham. Her son was left to the care of his
good old grandmother, who was very kind to him,
and sent him to school. In his early years, Isaac
did not appear to be a very bright scholar, but was
chiefly remarkable for his ingenuity in all mechanical
occupations. He had a set of little tools, and
saws of various sizes, manufactured by himself.
With the aid of these, Isaac contrived to make
many curious articles, at which he worked with so
much skill, that he seemed to have been born with a
saw or chisel in his hand.</p>

<p>The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the
things which Isaac manufactured. And his old
grandmother, I suppose, was never weary of talking
about him.</p>

<p>"He'll make a capital workman, one of these
days," she would probably say. "No fear but
what Isaac will do well in the world, and be a rich
man before he dies."</p>

<p>It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipations
of his grandmother and the neighbors, about
Isaac's future life. Some of them, perhaps, fancied
that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany,
rose-wood, or polished oak, inlaid with ivory and
ebony, and magnificently gilded. And then, doubtless,
all the rich people would purchase these fine
things, to adorn their drawing-rooms. Others probably
thought that little Isaac was destined to be
an architect, and would build splendid mansions for
the nobility and gentry, and churches too, with the
tallest steeples that had ever been seen in England.</p>

<p>Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac's
grandmother to apprentice him to a clockmaker;
for, besides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to
have a taste for mathematics, which would be very
useful to him in that profession. And then, in due
time, Isaac would set up for himself, and would manufacture
curious clocks, like those that contain sets
of dancing figures, which issue from the dial-plate
when the hour is struck; or like those, where a ship
sails across the face of the clock, and is seen tossing
up and down on the waves, as often as the pendulum
vibrates.</p>

<p>Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that
Isaac would devote himself to the manufacture of
clocks; since he had already made one, of a kind
which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set
a-going, not by wheels and weights, like other clocks,
but by the dropping of water. This was an object
of great wonderment to all the people roundabout;
and it must be confessed that there are few boys, or
men either, who could contrive to tell what o'clock
it is, by means of a bowl of water.</p>

<p>Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sun-dial.
Thus his grandmother was never at a loss to know
the hour; for the water-clock would tell it in the
shade, and the dial in the sunshine. The sun-dial
is said to be still in existence at Woolsthorpe, on the
corner of the house where Isaac dwelt. If so, it
must have marked the passage of every sunny hour
that has elapsed, since Isaac Newton was a boy. It
marked all the famous moments of his life; it marked
the hour of his death; and still the sunshine creeps
slowly over it, as regularly as when Isaac first set
it up.</p>

<p>Yet we must not say that the sun-dial has lasted
longer than its maker; for Isaac Newton will exist,
long after the dial&#8212;yea, and long after the sun
itself&#8212;shall have crumbled to decay.</p>

<p>Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring
knowledge by the simplest means. For instance,
what method do you suppose he took, to find out the
strength of the wind? You will never guess how
the boy could compel that unseen, inconstant, and
ungovernable wanderer, the wind, to tell him the
measure of its strength. Yet nothing can be more
simple. He jumped against the wind; and by the
length of his jump, he could calculate the force of a
gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a tempest. Thus,
even in his boyish sports, he was continually searching
out the secrets of philosophy.</p>

<p>Not far from his grandmother's residence there
was a windmill, which operated on a new plan.
Isaac was in the habit of going thither frequently,
and would spend whole hours in examining its various
parts. While the mill was at rest, he pryed
into its internal machinery. When its broad sails
were set in motion by the wind, he watched the process
by which the mill-stones were made to revolve,
and crush the grain that was put into the hopper.
After gaining a thorough knowledge of its construction,
he was observed to be unusually busy with his
tools.</p>

<p>It was not long before his grandmother, and all
the neighborhood, knew what Isaac had been about.
He had constructed a model of the windmill.
Though not so large, I suppose as one of the box-traps
which boys set to catch squirrels, yet every part
of the mill and its machinery was complete. Its little
sails were neatly made of linen, and whirled round
very swiftly when the mill was placed in a draught
of air. Even a puff of wind from Isaac's mouth, or
from a pair of bellows, was sufficient to set the sails
in motion. And&#8212;what was most curious&#8212;if a
handful of grains of wheat were put into the little
hopper, they would soon be converted into snow-white
flour.</p>

<p>Isaac's playmates were enchanted with his new
windmill. They thought that nothing so pretty, and
so wonderful, had ever been seen in the whole world.</p>

<p>"But, Isaac," said one of them, "you have forgotten
one thing that belongs to a mill."</p>

<p>"What is that?" asked Isaac; for he supposed,
that, from the roof of the mill to its foundation, he
had forgotten nothing.</p>

<p>"Why, where is the miller?" said his friend.</p>

<p>"That is true!&#8212;I must look out for one," said
Isaac; and he set himself to consider how the deficiency
should be supplied.</p>

<p>He might easily have made the miniature figure
of a man; but then it would not have been able to
move about, and perform the duties of a miller. As
Captain Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the
island of Lilliput, Isaac did not know that there were
little men in the world, whose size was just suited
to his windmill. It so happened, however, that a
mouse had just been caught in the trap; and, as no
other miller could be found, Mr. Mouse was appointed
to that important office. The new miller made a
very respectable appearance in his dark gray coat.
To be sure, he had not a very good character for
honesty, and was suspected of sometimes stealing a
portion of the grain which was given him to grind.
But perhaps some two-legged millers are quite as
dishonest as this small quadruped.</p>

<p>As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far
more important matters in his mind than the manufacture
of toys, like the little windmill. All day
long, if left to himself, he was either absorbed in
thought, or engaged in some book of mathematics,
or natural philosophy. At night, I think it probable,
he looked up with reverential curiosity to the stars,
and wondered whether they were worlds, like our
own,&#8212;and how great was their distance from the
earth,&#8212;and what was the power that kept them in
their courses. Perhaps, even so early in life, Isaac
Newton felt a presentiment that he should be able,
hereafter, to answer all these questions.</p>

<p>When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother's
second husband being now dead, she wished her son
to leave school, and assist her in managing the farm
at Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he
tried to turn his attention to farming. But his mind
was so bent on becoming a scholar, that his mother
sent him back to school, and afterwards to the University
of Cambridge.</p>

<p>I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton's
boyhood. My story would be far too long,
were I to mention all the splendid discoveries which
he made, after he came to be a man. He was the
first that found out the nature of Light; for, before
his day, nobody could tell what the sunshine was
composed of. You remember, I suppose, the story
of an apple's falling on his head, and thus leading
him to discover the force of gravitation, which keeps
the heavenly bodies in their courses. When he had
once got hold of this idea, he never permitted his
mind to rest, until he had searched out all the laws,
by which the planets are guided through the sky.
This he did as thoroughly as if he had gone up
among the stars, and tracked them in their orbits.
The boy had found out the mechanism of a windmill;
the man explained to his fellow-men the mechanism
of the universe.</p>

<p>While making these researches he was accustomed
to spend night after night in a lofty tower, gazing at
the heavenly bodies through a telescope. His mind
was lifted far above the things of this world. He
may be said, indeed, to have spent the greater part
of his life in worlds that lie thousands and millions
of miles away; for where the thoughts and the
heart are, there is our true existence.</p>

<p>Did you never hear the story of Newton and his
little dog Diamond? One day, when he was fifty
years old, and had been hard at work more than
twenty years, studying the theory of Light, he went
out of his chamber, leaving his little dog asleep before
the fire. On the table lay a heap of manuscript
papers, containing all the discoveries which Newton
had made during those twenty years. When his
master was gone, up rose little Diamond, jumped
upon the table, and overthrew the lighted candle.
The papers immediately caught fire.</p>

<p>Just as the destruction was completed, Newton
opened the chamber-door, and perceived that the
labors of twenty years were reduced to a heap of
ashes. There stood little Diamond, the author of all
the mischief. Almost any other man would have
sentenced the dog to immediate death. But Newton
patted him on the head with his usual kindness,
although grief was at his heart.</p>

<p>"Oh, Diamond, Diamond," exclaimed he, "thou
little knowest the mischief thou hast done."</p>

<p>This incident affected his health and spirits for
some time afterwards; but, from his conduct towards
the little dog, you may judge what was the sweetness
of his temper.</p>

<p>Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired
great renown, and was made a Member of Parliament,
and received the honor of knighthood from
the king. But he cared little for earthly fame and
honors, and felt no pride in the vastness of his
knowledge. All that he had learned only made him
feel how little he knew in comparison to what remained
to be known.</p>

<p>"I seem to myself like a child," observed he,
"playing on the sea-shore, and picking up here and
there a curious shell or a pretty pebble, while the
boundless ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before
me."</p>

<p>At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five
years old, Sir Isaac Newton died,&#8212;or rather he
ceased to live on earth. We may be permitted to
believe that he is still searching out the infinite wisdom
and goodness of the Creator, as earnestly, and
with even more success, than while his spirit animated
a mortal body. He has left a fame behind him,
which will be as endurable as if his name were
written in letters of light, formed by the stars upon
the midnight sky.</p>

<lb />

<p>"I love to hear about mechanical contrivances&#8212;such
as the water-clock and the little windmill," remarked
George. "I suppose if Sir Isaac Newton
had only thought of it, he might have found out the
steam-engine, and railroads, and all the other famous
inventions that have come into use since his day."</p>

<p>"Very possibly he might," replied Mr. Temple;
"and, no doubt, a great many people would think it
more useful to manufacture steam-engines, than to
search out the system of the universe. Other great
astronomers, besides Newton, have been endowed
with mechanical genius. There was David Rittenhouse,
an American,&#8212;he made a perfect little
water-mill, when he was only seven or eight years
old. But this sort of ingenuity is but a mere trifle
in comparison with the other talents of such men."</p>

<p>"It must have been beautiful," said Edward, "to
spend whole nights in a high tower, as Newton did,
gazing at the stars, and the comets, and the meteors.
But what would Newton have done, had he been
blind? or if his eyes had been no better than
mine?"</p>

<p>"Why, even then, my dear child," observed Mrs.
Temple, "he would have found out some way of
enlightening his mind, and of elevating his soul.
But, come! little Emily is waiting to bid you good
night. You must go to sleep, and dream of seeing
all our faces."</p>

<p>"But how sad it will be, when I awake!" murmured
Edward.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IV</head>

<p>In the course of the next day, the harmony of our
little family was disturbed by something like a quarrel
between George and Edward.</p>

<p>The former, though he loved his brother dearly,
had found it quite too great a sacrifice of his own
enjoyments, to spend all his playtime in a darkened
chamber. Edward, on the other hand, was inclined
to be despotic. He felt as if his bandaged eyes
entitled him to demand that everybody, who enjoyed
the blessing of sight, should contribute to his
comfort and amusement. He therefore insisted that
George, instead of going out to play at foot-ball, should
join with himself and Emily in a game of questions
and answers.</p>

<p>George resolutely refused, and ran out of the
house. He did not revisit Edward's chamber till
the evening, when he stole in, looking confused, yet
somewhat sullen, and sat down beside his father's
chair. It was evident, by a motion of Edward's
head and a slight trembling of his lips, that he was
aware of George's entrance, though his footsteps had
been almost inaudible. Emily, with her serious and
earnest little face, looked from one to the other, as
if she longed to be a messenger of peace between
them.</p>

<p>Mr. Temple, without seeming to notice any of
these circumstances, began a story.</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>SAMUEL JOHNSON</head>

<p><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Born</hi> 1709. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Died</hi> 1784.</p>

<p>"Sam," said Mr. Michael Johnson of Lichfield,
one morning, "I am very feeble and ailing to-day.
You must go to Uttoxeter in my stead, and tend the
bookstall in the market-place there."</p>

<p>This was spoken, above a hundred years ago, by
an elderly man, who had once been a thriving bookseller
at Lichfield, in England. Being now in reduced
circumstances, he was forced to go, every
market-day, and sell books at a stall, in the neighboring
village of Uttoxeter.</p>

<p>His son, to whom Mr. Johnson spoke, was a great
boy of very singular aspect. He had an intelligent
face; but it was seamed and distorted by a scrofulous
humor, which affected his eyes so badly, that
sometimes he was almost blind. Owing to the same
cause, his head would often shake with a tremulous
motion, as if he were afflicted with the palsy. When
Sam was an infant, the famous Queen Anne had
tried to cure him of this disease, by laying her royal
hands upon his head. But though the touch of a
king or Queen was supposed to be a certain remedy
for scrofula, it produced no good effect upon Sam
Johnson.</p>

<p>At the time which we speak of, the poor lad was
not very well dressed, and wore shoes from which his
toes peeped out; for his old father had barely the
means of supporting his wife and children. But,
poor as the family were, young Sam Johnson had as
much pride as any nobleman's son in England. The
fact was, he felt conscious of uncommon sense and
ability, which, in his own opinion, entitled him to
great respect from the world. Perhaps he would
have been glad, if grown people had treated him as
reverentially as his school-fellows did. Three of
them were accustomed to come for him, every morning;
and while he sat upon the back of one, the two
others supported him on each side, and thus he rode
to school in triumph!</p>

<p>Being a personage of so much importance, Sam
could not bear the idea of standing all day in Uttoxeter
market, offering books to the rude and ignorant
country-people. Doubtless he felt the more reluctant
on account of his shabby clothes, and the disorder of
his eyes, and the tremulous motion of his head.</p>

<p>When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted,
and made an indistinct grumbling in his throat; then
he looked his old father in the face, and answered
him loudly and deliberately.</p>

<p>"Sir," said he, "I will not go to Uttoxeter
market!"</p>

<p>Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad's
obstinacy ever since his birth; and while Sam was
younger, the old gentleman had probably used the
rod, whenever occasion seemed to require. But he
was now too feeble, and too much out of spirits, to
contend with this stubborn and violent-tempered boy.
He therefore gave up the point at once, and prepared
to go to Uttoxeter himself.</p>

<p>"Well Sam," said Mr. Johnson, as he took his
hat and staff, "If, for the sake of your foolish pride,
you can suffer your poor sick father to stand all day
in the noise and confusion of the market, when he
ought to be in his bed, I have no more to say. But
you will think of this, Sam, when I am dead and
gone!"</p>

<p>So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his
eye, but certainly with sorrow in his heart) set forth
towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble, melancholy
Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was,
that he should be forced to go, in his sickness, and
toil for the support of an ungrateful son, who was
too proud to do any thing for his father, or his mother,
or himself! Sam looked after Mr. Johnson,
with a sullen countenance, till he was out of sight.</p>

<p>But when the old man's figure, as he went stooping
along the street, was no more to be seen, the
boy's heart began to smite him. He had a vivid
imagination, and it tormented him with the image of
his father, standing in the market-place of Uttoxeter
and offering his books to the noisy crowd around him,
Sam seemed to behold him, arranging his literary
merchandise upon the stall in such a way as was best
calculated to attract notice. Here was Addison's
Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was
Pope's translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here
were Dryden's poems, or those of Prior. Here,
likewise, were Gulliver's Travels, and a variety of
little gilt-covered children's books, such as Tom
Thumb, Jack the Giant-queller, Mother Goose's
Melodies, and others which our great-grandparents
used to read in their childhood. And here were
sermons for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians,
and ballads, some merry and some dismal
ones, for the country people to sing.</p>

<p>Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these
books, pamphlets, and ballads, now to the rude yeomen,
who perhaps could not read a word,&#8212;now to
the country squires, who cared for nothing but to
hunt hares and foxes,&#8212;now to the children, who
chose to spend their coppers for sugar-plums or
gingerbread, rather than for picture-books. And if
Mr. Johnson should sell a book to man, woman, or
child, it would cost him an hour's talk to get a profit
of only sixpence.</p>

<p>"My poor father!" thought Sam to himself.
"How his head will ache, and how heavy his heart
will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he
bade me!"</p>

<p>Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy
about the house. She did not know of what had
passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.</p>

<p>"Mother," said he, "did you think father seemed
very ill to-day?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Sam," answered his mother, turning with
a flushed face from the fire, where she was cooking
their scanty dinner. "Your father did look very
ill; and it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter
in his stead. You are a great boy now, and would
rejoice, I am sure, to do something for your poor
father, who has done so much for you."</p>

<p>The lad made no reply. But again his imagination
set to work, and conjured up another picture of
poor Michael Johnson. He was standing in the hot
sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary,
sick, and disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd
were drawn to him. "Had this old man no son,"
the people would say among themselves, "who
might have taken his place at the bookstall, while
the father kept his bed?" And perhaps&#8212;but
this was a terrible thought for Sam!&#8212;perhaps his
father would faint away, and fall down in the
market-place, with his gray hair in the dust, and his
venerable face as deathlike as that of a corpse.
And there would be the bystanders gazing earnestly
at Mr. Johnson, and whispering, "Is he dead? Is
he dead?"</p>

<p>And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself:
"Is he dead?"</p>

<p>"Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he,
within his own heart. "God forgive me! God
forgive me!"</p>

<p>But God could not yet forgive him; for he was
not truly penitent. Had he been so, he would have
hastened away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and
have fallen at his father's feet, even in the midst of
the crowded market-place. There he would have
confessed his fault, and besought Mr. Johnson to go
home, and leave the rest of the day's work to him.
But such was Sam's pride and natural stubbornness,
that he could not bring himself to this humiliation.
Yet he ought to have done so, for his own sake, and
for his father's sake, and for God's sake.</p>

<p>After sunset, old Michael Johnson came slowly
home, and sat down in his customary chair. He
said nothing to Sam; nor do I know that a single
word ever passed between them, on the subject of
the son's disobedience. In a few years, his father
died and left Sam to fight his way through the world
by himself. It would make our story much too long
were I to tell you even a few of the remarkable
events of Sam's life. Moreover, there is the less
need of this, because many books have been written
about that poor boy, and the fame that he acquired,
and all that he did or talked of doing, after he came
to be a man.</p>

<p>But one thing I must not neglect to say. From
his boyhood upward, until the latest day of his life, he
never forgot the story of Uttoxeter market. Often
when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford,
or master of an Academy at Edial, or a writer for
the London booksellers,&#8212;in all his poverty and toil,
and in all his success,&#8212;while he was walking the
streets without a shilling to buy food, or when the
greatest men of England were proud to feast him at
their table,&#8212;still that heavy and remorseful thought
came back to him:&#8212;"I was cruel to my poor father
in his illness!" Many and many a time, awake or
in his dreams, he seemed to see old Michael Johnson,
standing in the dust and confusion of the market-place,
and pressing his withered hand to his forehead
as if it ached.</p>

<p>Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have
such a thought as this to bear us company through
life.</p>

<lb />

<p>Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it
was longer than usual, Mr. Temple here made a
short pause. He perceived that Emily was in tears,
and Edward turned his half-veiled face towards the
speaker, with an air of great earnestness and interest.
As for George he had withdrawn into the dusky
shadow behind his father's chair.</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter V</head>

<p>In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story,
as follows:</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>SAMUEL JOHNSON&#8212;<hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">continued.</hi></head>

<p>Well, my children, fifty years had passed away
since young Sam Johnson had shown himself so
hard-hearted towards his father. It was now market-day
in the village of Uttoxeter.</p>

<p>In the street of the village, you might see cattle-dealers
with cows and oxen for sale, and pig-drovers,
with herds of squeaking swine, and farmers, with
cart-loads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other
produce of the soil. Now and then a farmer's red-faced
wife trotted along on horseback, with butter
and cheese in two large panniers. The people of
the village, with country squires and other visitors
from the neighborhood, walked hither and thither,
trading, jesting, quarrelling, and making just such a
bustle as their fathers and grandfathers had made
half a century before.</p>

<p>In one part of the street, there was a puppet-show,
with a ridiculous Merry-Andrew, who kept both
grown people and children in a roar of laughter.
On the opposite side was the old stone church of
Uttoxeter, with ivy climbing up its walls, and partly
obscuring its Gothic windows.</p>

<p>There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient
church; and the hands on the dial-plate had now
almost reached the hour of noon. At this busiest
hour of the market, a strange old gentleman was
seen making his way among the crowd. He was
very tall and bulky, and wore a brown coat and
small clothes, with black worsted stockings and
buckled shoes. On his head was a three-cornered
hat, beneath which a bushy gray wig thrust itself
out, all in disorder. The old gentleman elbowed
the people aside, and forced his way through the
midst of them with a singular kind of gait, rolling
his body hither and thither, so that he needed twice
as much room as any other person there.</p>

<p>"Make way, sir!" he would cry out, in a loud,
harsh voice, when somebody happened to interrupt
his progress.&#8212;"Sir, you intrude your person into
the public thoroughfare!"</p>

<p>"What a queer old fellow this is!" muttered the
people among themselves, hardly knowing whether
to laugh or to be angry.</p>

<p>But, when they looked into the venerable stranger's
face, not the most thoughtless among them dared
to offer him the least impertinence. Though his
features were scarred and distorted with the scrofula,
and though his eyes were dim and bleared, yet there
was something of authority and wisdom in his look,
which impressed them all with awe. So they stood
aside to let him pass; and the old gentleman made
his way across the market-place, and paused near
the corner of the ivy-mantled church. Just as he
reached it, the clock struck twelve.</p>

<p>On the very spot of ground, where the stranger
now stood, some aged people remembered that old
Michael Johnson had formerly kept his bookstall.
The little children, who had once bought picture-books
of him, were grandfathers now.</p>

<p>"Yes; here is the very spot!" muttered the old
gentleman to himself.</p>

<p>There this unknown personage took his stand, and
removed the three-cornered hat from his head. It
was the busiest hour of the day. What with the
hum of human voices, the lowing of cattle, the
squeaking of pigs, and the laughter caused by the
Merry-Andrew, the market-place was in very great
confusion. But the stranger seemed not to notice
it, any more than if the silence of a desert were
around him. He was wrapt in his own thoughts.
Sometimes he raised his furrowed brow to heaven,
as if in prayer; sometimes he bent his head, as if an
insupportable weight of sorrow were upon him. It
increased the awfulness of his aspect that there was
a motion of his head, and an almost continual tremor
throughout his frame, with singular twitchings and
contortions of his features.</p>

<p>The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head;
but he seemed not to feel its fervor. A dark cloud
swept across the sky, and rain-drops pattered into
the market-place; but the stranger heeded not the
shower. The people began to gaze at the mysterious
old gentleman, with superstitious fear and wonder.
Who could he be? Whence did he come? Wherefore
was he standing bare-headed in the market-place?
Even the school-boys left the Merry-Andrew,
and came to gaze, with wide open eyes, at
this tall, strange-looking old man.</p>

<p>There was a cattle-drover in the village, who had
recently made a journey to the Smithfield market,
in London. No sooner had this man thrust his way
through the throng, and taken a look at the unknown
personage, than he whispered to one of his acquaintances:</p>

<p>"I say, neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know
who this old gentleman is?"</p>

<p>"Ay, that I would," replied neighbor Hutchins;
"for a queerer chap I never saw in my life! Somehow,
it makes me feel small to look at him. He's
more than a common man."</p>

<p>"You may well say so," answered the cattle-drover.
"Why, that's the famous Doctor Samuel
Johnson, who, they say, is the greatest and learnedest
man in England. I saw him in London Streets,
walking with one Mr. Boswell."</p>

<p>Yes; the poor boy&#8212;the friendless Sam&#8212;with,
whom we began our story, had become the famous
Doctor Samuel Johnson! He was universally acknowledged
as the wisest man and greatest writer in
all England. He had given shape and permanence
to his native language, by his Dictionary. Thousands
upon thousands of people had read his Idler,
his Rambler, and his Rasselas. Noble and wealthy
men, and beautiful ladies, deemed it their highest
privilege to be his companions. Even the king of
Great Britain had sought his acquaintance, and told
him what an honor he considered it, that such a man
had been born in his dominions. He was now at
the summit of literary renown.</p>

<p>But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter
remembrance, which had tormented him through
life. Never, never, had he forgotten his father's
sorrowful and upbraiding look. Never&#8212;though
the old man's troubles had been over so many
years&#8212;had he forgiven himself for inflicting such
a pang upon his heart. And now, in his old
age, he had come hither to do penance, by
standing at noon-day in the market-place of Uttoxeter,
on the very spot where Michael Johnson
had once kept his bookstall. The aged and illustrious
man had done what the poor boy refused
to do. By thus expressing his deep repentance
and humiliation of heart, he hoped to gain peace
of conscience, and the forgiveness of God.</p>

<p>My dear children, if you have grieved&#8212;I will
not say, your parents&#8212;but, if you have grieved the
heart of any human being, who has a claim upon
your love, then think of Samuel Johnson's penance!
Will it not be better to redeem the error now, than
to endure the agony of remorse for fifty years?
Would you not rather say to a brother&#8212;"I have
erred! Forgive me!"&#8212;than perhaps to go hereafter,
and shed bitter tears upon his grave?</p>

<lb />

<p>Hardly was the story concluded, when George hastily
arose, and Edward likewise, stretching forth his
hands into the darkness that surrounded him, to find
his brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness;
each besought the other's forgiveness; and having,
done so, the trouble of their hearts vanished away
like a dream.</p>

<p>"I am glad! I am so glad!" said Emily, in
a low, earnest voice. "Now I shall sleep quietly
to-night."</p>

<p>"My sweet child," thought Mrs. Temple, as she
kissed her, "mayest thou never know how much
strife there is on earth! It would cost thee many
a night's rest."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VI</head>

<p>About this period, Mr. Temple found it necessary
to take a journey, which interrupted the series of
Biographical Stories for several evenings. In the
interval, Edward practised various methods of employing
and amusing his mind.</p>

<p>Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects
which he had formerly seen, until the intensity of
his recollection seemed to restore him the gift of
sight, and place every thing anew before his eyes.
Sometimes he repeated verses of poetry, which he
did not know to be in his memory, until he found
them there, just at the time of need. Sometimes
he attempted to solve arithmetical questions, which
had perplexed him while at school.</p>

<p>Then, with his mother's assistance, he learned the
letters of the string-alphabet, which is used in some
of the Institutions for the Blind, in Europe. When
one of his friends gave him a leaf of Saint Mark's
Gospel, printed in embossed characters, he endeavored
to read it by passing his fingers over the letters,
as blind children do.</p>

<p>His brother George was now very kind, and spent
so much time in the darkened chamber, that Edward
often insisted upon his going out to play. George
told him all about the affairs at school, and related
many amusing incidents that happened among his
comrades, and informed him what sports were now
in fashion, and whose kite soared the highest, and
whose little ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond.
As for Emily, she repeated stories which she had
learned from a new book, called THE FLOWER PEOPLE,
in which the snow-drops, the violets, the columbines,
the roses, and all that lovely tribe, are represented
as telling their secrets to a little girl. The flowers
talked sweetly, as flowers should; and Edward
almost fancied that he could behold their bloom
and smell their fragrant breath.</p>

<p>Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of
Edward's confinement passed not unhappily. In due
time, his father returned; and the next evening,
when the family were assembled, he began a story.</p>

<p>"I must first observe, children," said he, "that
some writers deny the truth of the incident which I
am about to relate to you. There certainly is but
little evidence in favor of it. Other respectable
writers, however, tell it for a fact; and, at all
events, it is an interesting story, and has an excellent
moral."</p>

<p>So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early
days of</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>OLIVER CROMWELL</head>

<p><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Born</hi> 1599. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Died</hi> 1658.</p>

<p>Not long after King James the First took the place
of Queen Elizabeth on the throne of England, there
lived an English knight at a place called Hinchinbrooke.
His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He
spent his life, I suppose, pretty much like other
English knights and squires in those days, hunting
hares and foxes, and drinking large quantities of ale
and wine. The old house in which he dwelt, had
been occupied by his ancestors before him, for a
good many years. In it there was a great hall,
hung round with coats of arms, and helmets, cuirasses
and swords which his forefathers had used in
battle, and with horns of deer and tails of foxes,
which they or Sir Oliver himself had killed in the
chase.</p>

<p>This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had
been called Oliver, after himself, but who was generally
known in the family by the name of little Noll.
His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver.
The child was often sent to visit his uncle, who
probably found him a troublesome little fellow to
take care of. He was forever in mischief, and
always running into some danger or other from
which he seemed to escape only by miracle.</p>

<p>Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange
accident had befallen him. A huge ape which was
kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in his
forepaws and clambered with him to the roof of the
house. There this ugly beast sat grinning at the
affrighted spectators, as if he had done the most
praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately, however,
he brought the child safe down again; and
the event was afterwards considered an omen that
Noll would reach a very elevated station in the
world.</p>

<p>One morning, when Noll was five or six years old,
a royal messenger arrived at Hinchinbrooke, with
tidings that King James was coming to dine with Sir
Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor to be sure,
but a very great trouble; for all the lords and ladies,
knights, squires, guards, and yeomen, who waited on
the king, were to be feasted as well as himself; and
more provisions would be eaten, and more wine
drunk, in that one day, than generally in a month.
However, Sir Oliver expressed much thankfulness
for the king's intended visit, and ordered his butler
and cook to make the best preparations in their
power. So a great fire was kindled in the kitchen;
and the neighbors knew by the smoke which poured
out of the chimney, that boiling, baking, stewing,
roasting, and frying, were going on merrily.</p>

<p>By and by the sound of trumpets was heard,
approaching nearer and nearer; and a heavy, old-fashioned
coach, surrounded by guards on horseback,
drove up to the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in
his hand, stood at the gate to receive the king. His
Majesty was dressed in a suit of green, not very
new; he had a feather in his hat, and a triple ruff
round his neck; and over his shoulder was slung a
hunting horn, instead of a sword. Altogether, he
had not the most dignified aspect in the world; but
the spectators gazed at him as if there was something
superhuman and divine in his person. They
even shaded their eyes with their hands, as if they
were dazzled by the glory of his countenance.</p>

<p>"How are ye, man?" cried King James, speaking
in a Scotch accent; for Scotland was his native
country. "By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad
to see ye!"</p>

<p>The good knight thanked the king, at the same
time kneeling down, while his Majesty alighted.
When King James stood on the ground, he directed
Sir Oliver's attention to a little boy, who had come
with him in the coach. He was six or seven years
old, and wore a hat and feather, and was more richly
dressed than the king himself. Though by no means
an ill-looking child; he seemed shy, or even sulky;
and his cheeks were rather pale, as if he had been
kept moping within doors, instead of being sent out
to play in the sun and wind.</p>

<p>"I have brought my son Charlie to see ye," said
the king. "I hope, Sir Oliver, ye have a son of
your own, to be his playmate?"</p>

<p>Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to
the little prince, whom one of the attendants had
now taken out of the coach. It was wonderful to
see how all the spectators, even the aged men, with
their gray beards, humbled themselves before this
child. They bent their bodies till their beards
almost swept the dust. They looked as if they
were ready to kneel down and worship him.</p>

<p>The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy
not a soul had dared to contradict him; everybody
around him had acted as if he were a superior being;
so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion
of himself. He naturally supposed that the whole
kingdom of Great Britain and all its inhabitants, had
been created solely for his benefit and amusement.
This was a sad mistake; and it cost him dear
enough after he had ascended his father's throne.</p>

<p>"What a noble little prince he is!" exclaimed
Sir Oliver, lifting his hands in admiration. "No,
please your Majesty, I have no son to be the playmate
of his Royal Highness; but there is a nephew
of mine, somewhere about the house. He is near
the prince's age, and will be but too happy to wait
upon his Royal Highness."</p>

<p>"Send for him, man! send for him!" said the
king.</p>

<p>But, as it happened, there was no need of sending
for Master Noll. While King James was speaking,
a rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin thrust
himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants,
and greeted the prince with a broad stare.
His doublet and hose (which had been put on new
and clean in honor of the king's visit) were already
soiled and torn with the rough play in which he had
spent the morning. He looked no more abashed
than if King James were his uncle, and the prince
one of his customary playfellows.</p>

<p>This was little Noll himself.</p>

<p>"Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew,"
said sir Oliver, somewhat ashamed of Noll's appearance
and demeanor. "Oliver, make your obeisance
to the king's Majesty!"</p>

<p>The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the
king; for, in those days, children were taught to
pay reverence to their elders. King James, who
prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll
a few questions in the Latin Grammar, and then
introduced him to his son. The little prince in a
very grave and dignified manner, extended his hand,
not for Noll to shake, but that he might kneel down
and kiss it.</p>

<p>"Nephew," said Sir Oliver, "pay your duty to
the prince."</p>

<p>"I owe him no duty," cried Noll, thrusting aside
the prince's hand, with a rude laugh. "Why should
I kiss that boy's hand?"</p>

<p>All the courtiers were amazed and confounded,
and Sir Oliver the most of all. But the king laughed
heartily, saying that little Noll had a stubborn English
spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn
betimes what sort of a people he was to rule over.</p>

<p>So King James and his train entered the house;
and the prince, with Noll and some other children,
was sent to play in a separate room while his Majesty
was at dinner. The young people soon became
acquainted; for boys, whether the sons of monarchs
or of peasants, all like play, and are pleased with
one another's society. What games they diverted
themselves with, I cannot tell. Perhaps they played
at ball&#8212;perhaps at blindman's buff&#8212;perhaps
at leap-frog&#8212;perhaps at prison-bars. Such games
have been in use for hundreds of years; and princes
as well as poor children have spent some of their
happiest hours in playing at them.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, King James and his nobles were feasting
with Sir Oliver, in the great hall. The king sat
in a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head of a
long table. Whenever any of the company addressed
him, it was with the deepest reverence. If the attendants
offered him wine, or the various delicacies of
the festival, it was upon their bended knees. You
would have thought, by these tokens of worship,
that the monarch was a supernatural being; only
he seemed to have quite as much need of those
vulgar matters, food and drink, as any other person
at the table. But fate had ordained that good King
James should not finish his dinner in peace.</p>

<p>All of a sudden, there arose a terrible uproar in
the room where the children were at play. Angry
shouts and shrill cries of alarm were mixed up
together; while the voices of elder persons were
likewise heard, trying to restore order among the
children. The king, and everybody else at table,
looked aghast; for perhaps the tumult made them
think that a general rebellion had broken out.</p>

<p>"Mercy on us!" muttered Sir Oliver; "that
graceless nephew of mine is in some mischief or
other. The naughty little whelp!"</p>

<p>Getting up from table, he ran to see what was
the matter, followed by many of the guests, and the
king among them. They all crowded to the door of
the play-room.</p>

<p>On looking in, they beheld the little Prince
Charles, with his rich dress all torn, and covered
with the dust of the floor. His royal blood was
streaming from his nose in great abundance. He
gazed at Noll with a mixture of rage and affright,
and at the same time a puzzled expression, as if he
could not understand how any mortal boy should
dare to give him a beating. As for Noll, there
stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a lion, looking
as if he were ready to fight not only the prince, but
the king and kingdom too.</p>

<p>"You little villain!" cried his uncle. "What
have you been about? Down on your knees, this
instant, and ask the prince's pardon. How dare
you lay your hands on the king's Majesty's royal
son?"</p>

<p>"He struck me first," grumbled the valiant little
Noll; "and I've only given him his due."</p>

<p>Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in
astonishment and horror. No punishment seemed
severe enough for this wicked little varlet, who had
dared to resent a blow from the king's own son.
Some of the courtiers were of opinion that Noll
should be sent prisoner to the Tower of London, and
brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their
great zeal for the king's service, were about to lay
hands on the boy, and chastise him in the royal
presence.</p>

<p>But King James, who sometimes showed a good
deal of sagacity, ordered them to desist.</p>

<p>"Thou art a bold boy," said he, looking fixedly at
little Noll; "and, if thou live to be a man, my son
Charlie would do wisely to be friends with thee."</p>

<p>"I never will!" cried the little prince, stamping
his foot.</p>

<p>"Peace, Charlie, peace!" said the king; then
addressing Sir Oliver and the attendants, "Harm
not the urchin; for he has taught my son a good
lesson, if Heaven do but give him grace to profit
by it. Hereafter, should he be tempted to tyrannize
over the stubborn race of Englishmen, let him remember
little Noll Cromwell, and his own bloody
nose!"</p>

<p>So the king finished his dinner and departed;
and, for many a long year, the childish quarrel
between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was forgotten.
The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier
life, and have met a more peaceful death, had he
remembered that quarrel, and the moral which his
father drew from it. But, when old King James
was dead, and Charles sat upon his throne, he seemed
to forget that he was but a man, and that his meanest
subjects were men as well as he. He wished to have
the property and lives of the people of England entirely
at his own disposal. But the Puritans, and
all who loved liberty, rose against him, and beat him
in many battles, and pulled him down from his
throne.</p>

<p>Throughout this war between the king and nobles
on one side, and the people of England on the other,
there was a famous leader, who did more towards
the ruin of royal authority, than all the rest. The
contest seemed like a wrestling-match between King
Charles and this strong man. And the king was
overthrown.</p>

<p>When the discrowned monarch was brought to
trial, that warlike leader sat in the judgment-hall.
Many judges were present, besides himself; but he
alone had the power to save King Charles, or to
doom him to the scaffold. After sentence was pronounced,
this victorious general was entreated by
his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty
from death.</p>

<p>"No!" said he sternly. "Better that one man
should perish, than that the whole country should be
ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he shall die!"</p>

<p>When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the
scaffold, his great enemy stood at a window of the
royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor
victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused
power, as he laid his head upon the block. He
looked on, with a steadfast gaze, while a black-veiled
executioner lifted the fatal axe, and smote off that
anointed head at a single blow.</p>

<p>"It is a righteous deed," perhaps he said to himself.
"Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights."</p>

<p>At night, when the body of Charles was laid in
the coffin, in a gloomy chamber, the general entered,
lighting himself with a torch. Its gleam showed
that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred
with the many battles in which he had led the van;
his brow was wrinkled with care, and with the continual
exercise of stern authority. Probably there
was not a single trait, either of aspect or manner,
that belonged to the little Noll, who had battled so
stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this was he!</p>

<p>He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his
torch to fall upon the dead monarch's face. Then,
probably, his mind went back over all the marvellous
events, that had brought the hereditary king of England
to this dishonored coffin, and had raised himself,
an humble individual, to the possession of kingly
power. He was a king, though without the empty
title, or the glittering crown.</p>

<p>"Why was it," said Cromwell to himself&#8212;or
might have said&#8212;as he gazed at the pale features
in the coffin,&#8212;"Why was it, that this great king
fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the
power of the realm?"</p>

<p>And, indeed, why was it?</p>

<p>King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood
the same as when a child, he disdained to feel that
every human creature was his brother. He deemed
himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects
were created only for a king to rule over. And
Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many faults,
he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of his
fellow-men; and therefore the poor and the oppressed
all lent their strength to him.</p>

<lb />

<p>"Dear father, how I should hate to be a king!"
exclaimed Edward.</p>

<p>"And would you like to be a Cromwell?" inquired
his father.</p>

<p>"I should like it well," replied George, "only
I would not have put the poor old king to death. I
would have sent him out of the kingdom, or perhaps
have allowed him to live in a small house, near the
gate of the royal palace. It was too severe, to cut
off his head."</p>

<p>"Kings are in such an unfortunate position," said
Mr. Temple, "that they must either be almost deified
by their subjects, or else be dethroned and beheaded.
In either case it is a pitiable lot."</p>

<p>"Oh, I had rather be blind than be a king!"
said Edward.</p>

<p>"Well, my dear Edward," observed his mother,
with a smile, "I am glad you are convinced that
your own lot is not the hardest in the world."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VII</head>

<p>It was a pleasant sight (for those who had eyes)
to see how patiently the blinded little boy now submitted
to what he had at first deemed an intolerable
calamity. The beneficent Creator has not allowed
our comfort to depend on the enjoyment of any single
sense. Though he has made the world so very beautiful,
yet it is possible to be happy without ever beholding
the blue sky, or the green and flowery earth, or
the kind faces of those whom we love. Thus it appears
that all the external beauty of the universe is
a free gift from God, over and above what is necessary
to our comfort. How grateful, then, should we
be to that Divine Benevolence, which showers even
superfluous bounties upon us!</p>

<p>One truth, therefore, which Edward's blindness
had taught him, was, that his mind and soul could
dispense with the assistance of his eyes. Doubtless,
however, he would have found this lesson far more
difficult to learn, had it not been for the affection of
those around him. His parents, and George and
Emily, aided him to bear his misfortune; if possible,
they would have lent him their own eyes. And
this, too, was a good lesson for him. It taught him
how dependent on one another God has ordained us
to be; insomuch that all the necessities of mankind
should incite them to mutual love.</p>

<p>So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the
world, better than he ever did before. And he felt
grateful towards his father for spending the evenings
in telling him stories&#8212;more grateful, probably, than
any of my little readers will feel towards me for so
carefully writing those same stories down.</p>

<p>"Come, dear father," said he, the next evening,
"now tell us all about some other little boy, who was
destined to be a famous man."</p>

<p>"How would you like a story of a Boston boy?"
asked his father.</p>

<p>"Oh, pray let us have it!" cried George eagerly.
"It will be all the better if he has been to our
schools, and has coasted on the Common, and sailed
boats in the Frog Pond. I shall feel acquainted
with him then."</p>

<p>"Well, then," said Mr. Temple, "I will introduce
you to a Boston boy, whom all the world became
acquainted with, after he grew to be a man."</p>

<p>The story was as follows:&#8212;</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>BENJAMIN FRANKLIN</head>

<p><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Born</hi> 1706. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Died</hi> 1790.</p>

<p>In the year 1716, or about that period, a boy
used to be seen in the streets of Boston, who was
known among his schoolfellows and playmates by the
name of Ben Franklin. Ben was born in 1706; so
that he was now about ten years old. His father,
who had come over from England, was a soap-boiler
and tallow-chandler, and resided in Milk Street, not
far from the old South Church.</p>

<p>Ben was a bright boy at his book, and even a
brighter one when at play with his comrades. He
had some remarkable qualities which always seemed
to give him the lead, whether at sport or in more
serious matters. I might tell you a number of
amusing anecdotes about him. You are acquainted,
I suppose, with his famous story of the WHISTLE,
and how he bought it with a whole pocketful of
coppers, and afterwards repented of his bargain.
But Ben had grown a great boy since those days,
and had gained wisdom by experience; for it was
one of his peculiarities, that no incident ever happened
to him without teaching him some valuable
lesson. Thus he generally profited more by his
misfortunes, than many people do by the most favorable
events that could befall them.</p>

<p>Ben's face was already pretty well known to the
inhabitants of Boston. The selectmen, and other
people of note, often used to visit his father, for the
sake of talking about the affairs of the town or
province. Mr. Franklin was considered a person of
great wisdom and integrity, and was respected by
all who knew him, although he supported his family
by the humble trade of boiling soap, and making
tallow-candles.</p>

<p>While his father and the visitors were holding
deep consultations about public affairs, little Ben
would sit on his stool in a corner, listening with the
greatest interest, as if he understood every word.
Indeed, his features were so full of intelligence, that
there could be but little doubt, not only that he
understood what was said, but that he could have
expressed some very sagacious opinions out of his
own mind. But, in those days, boys were expected
to be silent in the presence of their elders. However,
Ben Franklin was looked upon as a very promising
lad, who would talk and act wisely by and by.</p>

<p>"Neighbor Franklin," his father's friends would
sometimes say, "you ought to send this boy to
college and make a minister of him."</p>

<p>"I have often thought of it," his father would
reply; "and my brother Benjamin promises to give
him a great many volumes of manuscript sermons in
case he should be educated for the church. But I
have a large family to support, and cannot afford the
expense."</p>

<p>In fact, Mr. Franklin found it so difficult to provide
bread for his family, that, when the boy was ten
years old, it became necessary to take him from
school. Ben was then employed in cutting candlewicks
into equal lengths, and filling the moulds with
tallow; and many families in Boston spent their
evenings by the light of the candles which he had
helped to make. Thus, you see, in his early days,
as well as in his manhood his labors contributed to
throw light upon dark matters.</p>

<p>Busy as his life now was, Ben still found time to
keep company with his former schoolfellows. He
and the other boys were very fond of fishing, and
spent any of their leisure hours on the margin of
the mill-pond, catching flounders, perch, eels, and
tom-cod, which came up thither with the tide. The
place where they fished is now, probably, covered
with stone-pavements and brick buildings, and
thronged with people, and with vehicles of all kinds.
But, at that period, it was a marshy spot on the
outskirts of the town, where gulls flitted and screamed
overhead, and salt meadow-grass grew under foot.
On the edge of the water there was a deep bed
of clay, in which the boys were forced to stand,
while they caught their fish. Here they dabbled in
mud and mire like a flock of ducks.</p>

<p>"This is very uncomfortable," said Ben Franklin
one day to his comrades, while they were standing
mid-leg deep in the quagmire.</p>

<p>"So it is," said the other boys. "What a pity
we have no better place to stand!"</p>

<p>If it had not been for Ben, nothing more would
have been done or said about the matter. But it
was not in his nature to be sensible of an inconvenience,
without using his best efforts to find a remedy.
So, as he and his comrades were returning from the
water-side, Ben suddenly threw down his string of
fish with a very determined air:</p>

<p>"Boys," cried he, "I have thought of a scheme,
which will be greatly for our benefit, and for the
public benefit!"</p>

<p>It was queer enough, to be sure, to hear this little
chap&#8212;this rosy-cheeked, ten-year-old boy&#8212;talking
about schemes for the public benefit! Nevertheless,
his companions were ready to listen, being assured
that Ben's scheme, whatever it was, would be well
worth their attention. They remembered how sagaciously
he had conducted all their enterprises, ever
since he had been old enough to wear small-clothes.</p>

<p>They remembered, too, his wonderful contrivance
of sailing across the mill-pond by lying flat on his
back, in the water, and allowing himself to be drawn
along by a paper-kite. If Ben could do that, he
might certainly do any thing.</p>

<p>"What is your scheme, Ben?&#8212;what is it?"
cried they all.</p>

<p>It so happened that they had now come to a spot
of ground where a new house was to be built. Scattered
round about lay a great many large stones,
which were to be used for the cellar and foundation.
Ben mounted upon the highest of these stones, so
that he might speak with the more authority.</p>

<p>"You know, lads," said he, "what a plague it is,
to be forced to stand in the quagmire yonder&#8212;over
shoes and stockings (if we wear any) in mud and
water. See! I am bedaubed to the knees of my
small-clothes, and you are all in the same pickle.
Unless we can find some remedy for this evil, our
fishing-business must be entirely given up. And,
surely, this would be a terrible misfortune!"</p>

<p>"That it would!&#8212;that it would!" said his
comrades, sorrowfully.</p>

<p>"Now I propose," continued Master Benjamin,
"that we build a wharf, for the purpose of carrying
on our fisheries. You see these stones. The workmen
mean to use them for the underpinning of a
house; but that would be for only one man's advantage.
My plan is to take these same stones, and
carry them to the edge of the water and build a
wharf with them. This will not only enable us to
carry on the fishing business with comfort, and to
better advantage, but it will likewise be a great convenience
to boats passing up and down the stream.
Thus, instead of one man, fifty, or a hundred, or a
thousand, besides ourselves, may be benefited by
these stones. What say you, lads?&#8212;shall we build
the wharf?"</p>

<p>Ben's proposal was received with one of those
uproarious shouts, wherewith boys usually express
their delight at whatever completely suits their
views. Nobody thought of questioning the right
and justice of building a wharf, with stones that belonged
to another person.</p>

<p>"Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted they. "Let's set
about it!"</p>

<p>It was agreed that they should all be on the spot,
that evening, and commence their grand public enterprise
by moonlight. Accordingly, at the appointed
time, the whole gang of youthful laborers assembled,
and eagerly began to remove the stones. They had
not calculated how much toil would be requisite, in
this important part of their undertaking. The very
first stone which they laid hold of, proved so heavy,
that it almost seemed to be fastened to the ground.
Nothing but Ben Franklin's cheerful and resolute
spirit could have induced them to persevere.</p>

<p>Ben, as might be expected, was the soul of the
enterprise. By his mechanical genius, he contrived
methods to lighten the labor of transporting the
stones; so that one boy, under his directions, would
perform as much as half a dozen, if left to themselves.
Whenever their spirits flagged, he had some joke
ready, which seemed to renew their strength by setting
them all into a roar of laughter. And when,
after an hour or two of hard work, the stones were
transported to the water-side, Ben Franklin was the
engineer, to superintend the construction of the wharf.</p>

<p>The boys, like a colony of ants, performed a great
deal of labor by their multitude, though the individual
strength of each could have accomplished but
little. Finally, just as the moon sank below the
horizon, the great work was finished.</p>

<p>"Now, boys," cried Ben, "let's give three cheers,
and go home to bed. To-morrow, we may catch fish
at our ease!" "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"
shouted his comrades.</p>

<p>Then they all went home, in such an ecstasy of
delight that they could hardly get a wink of sleep.</p>

<p>The story was not yet finished; but George's
impatience caused him to interrupt it.</p>

<p>"How I wish that I could have helped to build
that wharf!" exclaimed he. "It must have been
glorious fun. Ben Franklin for ever, say I!"</p>

<p>"It was a very pretty piece of work," said Mr.
Temple. "But wait till you hear the end of the
story."</p>

<p>"Father," inquired Edward, "whereabouts in
Boston was the mill-pond, on which Ben built his
wharf?"</p>

<p>"I do not exactly know," answered Mr. Temple;
"but I suppose it to have been on the northern verge
of the town, in the vicinity of what are now called
Merrimack and Charlestown streets. That thronged
portion of the city was once a marsh. Some of it,
in fact, was covered with water."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter VIII</head>

<p>As the children had no more questions to ask, Mr.
Temple proceeded to relate what consequences ensued
from the building of Ben Franklin's wharf.</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>BENJAMIN FRANKLIN&#8212;<hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">continued</hi></head>

<p>In the morning, when the early sunbeams were
gleaming on the steeples and roofs of the town, and
gilding the water that surrounded it, the masons
came, rubbing their eyes, to begin their work at the
foundation of the new house. But, on reaching the
spot, they rubbed their eyes so much the harder.
What had become of their heap of stones!</p>

<p>"Why, Sam," said one to another, in great perplexity,
"here's been some witchcraft at work, while
we were asleep. The stones must have flown away
through the air!"</p>

<p>"More likely they have been stolen!" answered
Sam.</p>

<p>"But who on earth would think of stealing a heap
of stones?" cried a third. "Could a man carry
them away in his pocket?"</p>

<p>The master-mason, who was a gruff kind of man,
stood scratching his head, and said nothing, at first.
But, looking carefully on the ground, he discerned
innumerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes,
and some barefoot. Following these tracks with his
eye, he saw that they formed a beaten path towards
the water-side.</p>

<p>"Ah, I see what the mischief is," said he, nodding
his head. "Those little rascals, the boys!
they have stolen our stones to build a wharf with!"</p>

<p>The masons immediately went to examine the new
structure. And to say the truth, it was well worth
looking at, so neatly, and with such admirable skill,
had it been planned and finished. The stones were
put together so securely, that there was no danger
of their being loosened by the tide, however swiftly
it might sweep along. There was a broad and safe
platform to stand upon, whence the little fishermen
might cast their lines into deep water, and draw up
fish in abundance. Indeed, it almost seemed as if
Ben and his comrades might be forgiven for taking
the stones, because they had done their job in such
a workmanlike manner.</p>

<p>"The chaps, that built this wharf, understood their
business pretty well," said one of the masons. "I
should not be ashamed of such a piece of work myself."</p>

<p>But the master-mason did not seem to enjoy the
joke. He was one of those unreasonable people,
who care a great deal more for their own rights and
privileges, than for the convenience of all the rest of
the world.</p>

<p>"Sam," said he, more gruffly than usual, "go
call a constable."</p>

<p>So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were
set on foot to discover the perpetrators of the theft.
In the course of the day, warrants were issued, with
the signature of a Justice of the Peace, to take the
bodies of Benjamin Franklin and other evil-disposed
persons, who had stolen a heap of stones. If the
owner of the stolen property had not been more
merciful than the master-mason, it might have gone
hard with our friend Benjamin and his fellow-laborers.
But, luckily for them, the gentleman had a
respect for Ben's father, and moreover, was amused
with the spirit of the whole affair. He therefore let
the culprits off pretty easily.</p>

<p>But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor
boys had to go through another trial, and receive
sentence, and suffer execution too, from their own
fathers. Many a rod I grieve to say, was worn to
the stump, on that unlucky night.</p>

<p>As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than
of his father's disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I
have mentioned before, was a sagacious man, and
also an inflexibly upright one. He had read much,
for a person in his rank of life, and had pondered
upon the ways of the world, until he had gained
more wisdom than a whole library of books could
have taught him. Ben had a greater reverence for
his father, than for any other person in the world, as
well on account of his spotless integrity, as of his
practical sense and deep views of things.</p>

<p>Consequently, after being released from the clutches
of the law, Ben came into his father's presence,
with no small perturbation of mind.</p>

<p>"Benjamin, come hither," began Mr. Franklin,
in his customary solemn and weighty tone.</p>

<p>The boy approached, and stood before his father's
chair, waiting reverently to hear what judgment this
good man would pass upon his late offence. He felt
that now the right and wrong of the whole matter
would be made to appear.</p>

<p>"Benjamin," said his father, "what could induce
you to take property which did not belong to you?"</p>

<p>"Why, father," replied Ben, hanging his head, at
first, but then lifting his eyes to Mr. Franklin's face,
"if it had been merely for my own benefit, I never
should have dreamed of it. But I knew that the
wharf would be a public convenience. If the owner
of the stones should build a house with them, nobody
will enjoy any advantage except himself. Now, I
made use of them in a way that was for the advantage
of many persons. I thought it right to aim at
doing good to the greatest number."</p>

<p>"My son," said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, "so far
as it was in your power, you have done a greater
harm to the public, than to the owner of the stones."</p>

<p>"How can that be, father?" asked Ben.</p>

<p>"Because," answered his father, "in building
your wharf with stolen materials, you have committed
a moral wrong. There is no more terrible mistake,
than to violate what is eternally right, for the
sake of a seeming expediency. Those who act upon
such a principle, do the utmost in their power to
destroy all that is good in the world."</p>

<p>"Heaven forbid!" said Benjamin.</p>

<p>"No act," continued Mr. Franklin, "can possibly
be for the benefit of the public generally, which involves
injustice to any individual. It would be easy
to prove this by examples. But, indeed, can we
suppose that our all-wise and just Creator would have
so ordered the affairs of the world, that a wrong act
should be the true method of attaining a right end?
It is impious to think so! And I do verily believe,
Benjamin, that almost all the public and private
misery of mankind arises from a neglect of this great
truth&#8212;that evil can produce only evil&#8212;that good
ends must be wrought out by good means."</p>

<p>"I will never forget it again," said Benjamin,
bowing his head.</p>

<p>"Remember," concluded his father, "that, whenever
we vary from the highest rule of right, just so
far we do an injury to the world. It may seem
otherwise for the moment; but, both in Time and
in Eternity, it will be found so."</p>

<p>To the close of his life, Ben Franklin never forgot
this conversation with his father; and we have reason
to suppose, that in most of his public and private
career, he endeavored to act upon the principles
which that good and wise man had then taught
him.</p>

<p>After the great event of building the wharf, Ben
continued to cut wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for
about two years. But, as he had no love for that
occupation, his father often took him to see various
artisans at their work, in order to discover what
trade he would prefer. Thus Ben learned the use
of a great many tools, the knowledge of which afterwards
proved very useful to him. But he seemed
much inclined to go to sea. In order to keep him
at home, and likewise to gratify his taste for letters,
the lad was bound apprentice to his elder brother,
who had lately set up a printing-office in Boston.</p>

<p>Here he had many opportunities of reading new
books, and of hearing instructive conversation. He
exercised himself so successfully in writing composition,
that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen
years old, he became a contributor to his brother's
newspaper. Ben was also a versifier, if not a poet.
He made two doleful ballads; one about the shipwreck
of Captain Worthilake, and the other about
the pirate Black Beard, who not long before, infested
the American seas.</p>

<p>When Ben's verses were printed, his brother sent
him to sell them to the town's-people, wet from the
press. "Buy my ballads!" shouted Benjamin, as
he trudged through the streets, with a basketful
on his arm. "Who'll buy a ballad about Black
Beard? A penny a piece! a penny a piece! who'll
buy my ballads?"</p>

<p>If one of those roughly composed and rudely
printed ballads could be discovered now, it would be
worth more than its weight in gold.</p>

<p>In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood
and youth, until, on account of some disagreement
with his brother, he left his native town and went to
Philadelphia. He landed in the latter city, a homeless
and hungry young man, and bought three-pence
worth of bread to satisfy his appetite. Not knowing
where else to go, he entered a Quaker meeting-house,
sat down, and fell fast asleep. He has not told us
whether his slumbers were visited by any dreams.
But it would have been a strange dream, indeed,
and an incredible one, that should have foretold how
great a man he was destined to become, and how
much he would be honored in that very city, where
he was now friendless, and unknown.</p>

<p>So here we finish our story of the childhood of
Benjamin Franklin. One of these days, if you
would know what he was in his manhood, you must
read his own works, and the history of American
Independence.</p>

<lb />

<p>"Do let us hear a little more of him!" said
Edward; "not that I admire him so much as many
other characters; but he interests me, because he
was a Yankee boy."</p>

<p>"My dear son," replied Mr. Temple, "it would
require a whole volume of talk, to tell you all that is
worth knowing about Benjamin Franklin. There is
a very pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the
midst of a thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the
lightning from the clouds, and proving that it was
the same thing as electricity. His whole life would
be an interesting story, if we had time to tell it."</p>

<p>"But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him
so famous," said George. "I have seen his portrait
a great many times. There is a wooden bust of him
in one of our streets, and marble ones, I suppose, in
some other places. And towns, and ships of war,
and steamboats, and banks, and academies, and
children, are often named after Franklin. Why
should he have grown so very famous?"</p>

<p>"Your question is a reasonable one, George,"
answered his father. "I doubt whether Franklin's
philosophical discoveries, important as they were, or
even his vast political services, would have given
him all the fame which he acquired. It appears to
me that Poor Richard's Almanac did more than any
thing else towards making him familiarly known to
the public. As the writer of those proverbs, which
Poor Richard was supposed to utter, Franklin became
the counsellor and household friend of almost
every family in America. Thus, it was the humblest
of all his labors that has done the most for his fame."</p>

<p>"I have read some of those proverbs," remarked
Edward; "but I do not like them. They are all
about getting money, or saving it."</p>

<p>"Well," said his father, "they were suited to
the condition of the country; and their effect, upon
the whole, has doubtless been good,&#8212;although they
teach men but a very small portion of their duties."</p>
</div>
</div>

<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>Chapter IX</head>

<p>Hitherto, Mr. Temple's narratives had all been
about boys and men. But, the next evening, he
bethought himself that the quiet little Emily would
perhaps be glad to hear the story of a child of her
own sex. He therefore resolved to narrate the
youthful adventures of Christina of Sweden, who
began to be a Queen at the age of no more than six
years. If we have any little girls among our readers,
they must not suppose that Christina is set before
them as a pattern of what they ought to be. On the
contrary, the tale of her life is chiefly profitable as
showing the evil effects of a wrong education, which
caused this daughter of a king to be both useless and
unhappy.</p>

<p>Here follows the story.</p>

<div>
<index index="toc" /><index index="pdf" />
<head>QUEEN CHRISTINA</head>

<p><hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Born</hi> 1626. <hi rend="font-variant: small-caps">Died</hi> 1689.</p>

<p>In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city
of Sweden, there was born, in 1626, a little princess.
The king, her father, gave her the name of Christina,
in memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been
in love. His own name was Gustavus Adolphus;
and he was also called the Lion of the North, because
he had gained greater fame in war than any other
prince or general then alive. With this valiant king
for their commander, the Swedes had made themselves
terrible to the Emperor of Germany and to
the King of France, and were looked upon as the
chief defence of the Protestant religion.</p>

<p>The little Christina was by no means a beautiful
child. To confess the truth, she was remarkably
plain. The queen, her mother, did not love her so
much as she ought; partly, perhaps, on account of
Christina's want of beauty, and also, because both
the king and queen had wished for a son, who might
have gained as great renown in battle as his father
had.</p>

<p>The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond
of the infant princess. When Christina was very
young, she was taken violently sick. Gustavus
Adolphus, who was several hundred miles from
Stockholm, travelled night and day, and never
rested until he held the poor child in his arms. On
her recovery, he made a solemn festival, in order to
show his joy to the people of Sweden and express
his gratitude to Heaven. After this event, he took
his daughter with him in all the journeys which he
made through his kingdom.</p>

<p>Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy
little girl. When she was two years old, the king
and herself, in the course of a journey, came to the
strong fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were
soldiers clad in steel armor, which glittered in the
sunshine. There were likewise great cannons, pointing
their black mouths at Gustavus and little Christina,
and ready to belch out their smoke and thunder;
for whenever a king enters a fortress it is customary
to receive him with a royal salute of artillery.</p>

<p>But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and
his daughter, as they were about to enter the gateway.</p>

<p>"May it please your Majesty," said he, taking
off his steel cap and bowing profoundly, "I fear
that if we receive you with a salute of cannon, the
little princess will be frightened almost to death."</p>

<p>Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and
was indeed apprehensive that the thunder of so
many cannon might perhaps throw her into convulsions.
He had almost a mind to tell the captain to
let them enter the fortress quietly, as common people
might have done, without all this head-splitting
racket. But no; this would not do.</p>

<p>"Let them fire," said he, waving his hand.
"Christina is a soldier's daughter, and must learn
to bear the noise of cannon."</p>

<p>So the captain uttered the word of command, and
immediately there was a terrible peal of thunder
from the cannon, and such a gush of smoke that it
enveloped the whole fortress in its volumes. But,
amid all the din and confusion, Christina was seen
clapping her little hands, and laughing in an ecstasy
of delight. Probably nothing ever pleased her
father so much as to see that his daughter promised
to be fearless as himself. He determined to educate
her exactly as if she had been a boy, and to
teach her all the knowledge needful to the ruler
of a kingdom and the commander of an army.</p>

<p>But Gustavus should have remembered that Providence
had created her to be a woman, and that it
was not for him to make a man of her.</p>

<p>However, the king derived great happiness from
his beloved Christina. It must have been a pleasant
sight to see the powerful monarch of Sweden playing
in some magnificent hall of the palace with this merry
little girl. Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom
rested upon his shoulders. He forgot that the
wise Chancellor Oxenstiern was waiting to consult
with him how to render Sweden the greatest nation
of Europe. He forgot that the Emperor of Germany
and the King of France were plotting together
how they might pull him down from his throne.</p>

<p>Yes; Gustavus forgot all the perils and cares
and pompous irksomeness of a royal life, and was as
happy, while playing with his child, as the humblest
peasant in the realm of Sweden. How gayly did
they dance along the marble floor of the palace, this
valiant king, with his upright, martial figure, his warworn
visage, and commanding aspect, and the small,
round form of Christina, with her rosy face of childish
merriment! Her little fingers were clasped in
her father's hand, which had held the leading-staff
in many famous victories. His crown and sceptre
were her playthings. She could disarm Gustavus
of his sword, which was so terrible to the princes of
Europe.</p>

<p>But alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy
Christina's society. When she was four years
old, Gustavus was summoned to take command of
the allied armies of Germany, which were fighting
against the Emperor. His greatest affliction was
the necessity of parting with his child; but people
in such high stations have but little opportunity for
domestic happiness. He called an assembly of the
Senators of Sweden, and confided Christina to their
care, saying that each one of them must be a father
to her, if he himself should fall in battle.</p>

<p>At the moment of his departure Christina ran towards
him, and began to address him with a speech
which somebody had taught her for the occasion.
Gustavus was busied with thoughts about the affairs
of the kingdom, so that he did not immediately attend
to the childish voice of his little girl. Christina, who
did not love to be unnoticed, immediately stopped
short, and pulled him by the coat.</p>

<p>"Father," said she, "why do not you listen to my
speech?"</p>

<p>In a moment, the king forgot every thing, except
that he was parting with what he loved best in all
the world. He caught the child in his arms, pressed
her to his bosom, and burst into tears. Yes; though
he was a brave man, and though he wore a steel
corselet on his breast, and though armies were waiting
for him to lead them to battle,&#8212;still, his heart
melted within him, and he wept. Christina, too,
was so afflicted that her attendants began to fear
that she would actually die of grief. But probably
she was soon comforted; for children seldom remember
their parents quite so faithfully as their parents
remember them.</p>

<p>For two years more, Christina remained in the
palace at Stockholm. The queen, her mother, had
accompanied Gustavus to the wars. The child, therefore,
was left to the guardianship of five of the wisest
men in the kingdom. But these wise men knew
better how to manage the affairs of state, than how
to govern and educate a little girl so as to render
her a good and happy woman.</p>

<p>When two years had passed away, tidings were
brought to Stockholm which filled everybody with
triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes
had won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But alas!
the warlike king of Sweden, the Lion of the North,
the father of our little Christina,&#8212;had been slain
at the foot of a great stone, which still marks the
spot of that hero's death.</p>

<p>Soon after this sad event, a General Assembly, or
Congress, consisting of deputations from the nobles,
the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of Sweden
was summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was
for the purpose of declaring little Christina to be
Queen of Sweden, and giving her the crown and
sceptre of her deceased father. Silence being proclaimed,
the Chancellor Oxenstiern arose.</p>

<p>"We desire to know," said he, "whether the people
of Sweden will take the daughter of our dead
king, Gustavus Adolphus, to be their Queen."</p>

<p>When the Chancellor had spoken, an old man with
white hair, and in coarse apparel, stood up in the
midst of the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars
Larrson by name, and had spent most of his life in
laboring on a farm.</p>

<p>"Who is this daughter of Gustavus?" asked the
old man. "We do not know her. Let her be shown
to us."</p>

<p>Then Christina was brought into the hall, and
placed before the old peasant. It was strange, no
doubt, to see a child&#8212;a little girl of six years old&#8212;offered
to the Swedes as their ruler, instead of
the brave king, her father, who had led them to
victory so many times. Could her baby fingers
wield a sword in war? Could her childish mind
govern the nation wisely in peace?</p>

<p>But the Swedes do not appear to have asked themselves
these questions. Old Lars Larrson took Christina
up in his arms, and gazed earnestly into her face.
He had known the great Gustavus well; and his
heart was touched, when he saw the likeness which
the little girl bore to that heroic monarch.</p>

<p>"Yes," cried he, with the tears gushing down his
furrowed cheeks, "this is truly the daughter of our
Gustavus! Here is her father's brow!&#8212;here is
his piercing eye! She is his very picture. This
child shall be our queen!"</p>

<p rend="text-align: center">
<figure rend="w95" url="images/image04.png"><figDesc>Image #4</figDesc></figure></p><p></p>

<p>Then all the proud nobles of Sweden, and the
reverend clergy, and the burghers, and the peasants,
knelt down at the child's feet, and kissed her hand.</p>

<p>"Long live Christina, queen of Sweden!" shouted
they.</p>

<p>Even after she was a woman grown, Christina
remembered the pleasure which she felt in seeing all
these men at her feet, and hearing them acknowledge
her as their supreme ruler. Poor child! she was
yet to learn that power does not insure happiness.
As yet, however, she had not any real power. All
the public business, it is true, was transacted in her
name; but the kingdom was governed by a number
of the most experienced statesmen, who were called
a Regency.</p>

<p>But it was considered necessary that the little
queen should be present at the public ceremonies,
and should behave just as if she were in reality the
ruler of the nation. When she was seven years of
age, some ambassadors from the Czar of Muscovy
came to the Swedish court. They wore long beards,
and were clad in a strange fashion, with furs, and
other outlandish ornaments; and as they were inhabitants
of a half-civilized country, they did not
behave like other people. The Chancellor Oxenstiern
was afraid that the young queen would burst
out a-laughing, at the first sight of these queer
ambassadors; or else that she would be frightened
by their unusual aspect.</p>

<p>"Why should I be frightened?" said the little
queen;&#8212;"and do you suppose that I have no better
manners than to laugh? Only tell me how I
must behave; and I will do it."</p>

<p>Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were
introduced; and Christina received them, and
answered their speeches, with as much dignity and
propriety as if she had been a grown woman.</p>

<p>All this time, though Christina was now a queen,
you must not suppose that she was left to act as she
pleased. She had a preceptor, named John Mathias,
who was a very learned man, and capable of instructing
her in all the branches of science. But there
was nobody to teach her the delicate graces and
gentle virtues of a woman. She was surrounded
almost entirely by men; and had learned to despise
the society of her own sex. At the age of nine
years, she was separated from her mother, whom
the Swedes did not consider a proper person to be
entrusted with the charge of her. No little girl,
who sits by a New England fireside, has cause to
envy Christina, in the royal palace at Stockholm.</p>

<p>Yet she made great progress in her studies. She
learned to read the classical authors of Greece and
Rome, and became a great admirer of the heroes
and poets of old times. Then, as for active exercises,
she could ride on horseback as well as any man
in her kingdom. She was fond of hunting, and
could shoot at a mark with wonderful skill. But
dancing was the only feminine accomplishment with
which she had any acquaintance.</p>

<p>She was so restless in her disposition, that none
of her attendants were sure of a moment's quiet,
neither day nor night. She grew up, I am sorry to
say, a very unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud,
stubborn, and, in short, unfit to make those around
her happy, or to be happy herself. Let every little
girl, who has been taught self-control, and a due regard
for the rights of others, thank heaven that she
has had better instruction than this poor little queen
of Sweden.</p>

<p>At the age of eighteen, Christina was declared
free to govern the kingdom by herself, without the
aid of a regency. At this period of her life, she
was a young woman of striking aspect, a good figure
and intelligent face, but very strangely dressed.
She wore a short habit of gray cloth, with a man's
vest over it, and a black scarf around her neck, but
no jewels, nor ornaments of any kind.</p>

<p>Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her
appearance, there was something in her air and
manner that proclaimed her as the ruler of a kingdom.
Her eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and
haughty look. Old General Wrangel, who had
often caused the enemies of Sweden to tremble in
battle, actually trembled himself, when he encountered
the eyes of the queen. But it would have
been better for Christina if she could have made
people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks,
instead of affrighting them by such terrible glances.</p>

<p>And now I have told you almost all that is amusing
or instructive, in the childhood of Christina. Only
a few more words need be said about her; for it is
neither pleasant nor profitable to think of many
things that she did, after she grew to be a woman.</p>

<p>When she had worn the crown a few years, she
began to consider it beneath her dignity to be called
a queen, because the name implied that she belonged
to the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to
be proclaimed KING, thus declaring to the world
that she despised her own sex, and was desirous of
being ranked among men. But in the twenty-eighth
year of her age, Christina grew tired of royalty, and
resolved to be neither a king nor a queen any longer.
She took the crown from her head, with her own
hands, and ceased to be the ruler of Sweden. The
people did not greatly regret her abdication; for she
had governed them ill, and had taken much of their
property to supply her extravagance.</p>

<p>Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Christina
left Sweden and travelled over many of the
countries of Europe. Everywhere, she was received
with great ceremony, because she was the daughter
of the renowned Gustavus, and had herself been a
powerful queen. Perhaps you would like to know
something about her personal appearance, in the
latter part of her life. She is described as wearing
a man's vest, a short gray petticoat, embroidered
with gold and silver, and a black wig, which was
thrust awry upon her head. She wore no gloves,
and so seldom washed her hands that nobody could
tell what had been their original color. In this
strange dress, and, I suppose, without washing her
hands or face, she visited the magnificent court of
Louis the Fourteenth.</p>

<p>She died in 1689. None loved her while she
lived, nor regretted her death, nor planted a single
flower upon her grave. Happy are the little girls of
America, who are brought up quietly and tenderly,
at the domestic hearth, and thus become gentle and
delicate women! May none of them ever lose the
loveliness of their sex, by receiving such an education
as that of Queen Christina!</p>

<lb />

<p>Emily, timid, quiet, and sensitive, was the very
reverse of little Christina. She seemed shocked at
the idea of such a bold and masculine character as
has been described in the foregoing story.</p>

<p>"I never could have loved her," whispered she
to Mrs. Temple; and then she added, with that love
of personal neatness, which generally accompanies
purity of heart:&#8212;"It troubles me to think of her
unclean hands!"</p>

<p>"Christina was a sad specimen of womankind,
indeed," said Mrs. Temple. "But it is very possible
for a woman to have a strong mind, and to be
fitted for the active business of life, without losing
any of her natural delicacy. Perhaps, some time
or other, Mr. Temple will tell you a story of such a
woman."</p>

<p>It was now time for Edward to be left to repose.
His brother George shook him heartily by the hand,
and hoped, as he had hoped twenty times before,
that to-morrow or the next day, Ned's eyes would
be strong enough to look the sun right in the face.</p>

<p>"Thank you, George," replied Edward, smiling;
"but I am not half so impatient as at first. If my
bodily eyesight were as good as yours, perhaps I
could not see things so distinctly with my mind's
eye. But now there is a light within which shows
me the little Quaker artist, Ben West, and Isaac
Newton with his windmill, and stubborn Sam Johnson,
and stout Noll Cromwell, and shrewd Ben
Franklin, and little Queen Christina with the Swedes
kneeling at her feet. It seems as if I really saw
these personages face to face. So I can bear the
darkness outside of me pretty well."</p>

<p>When Edward ceased speaking, Emily put up her
mouth and kissed him as her farewell for the night.</p>

<p>"Ah, I forgot!" said Edward, with a sigh. "I
cannot see any of your faces. What would it signify
to see all the famous people in the world, if I
must be blind to the faces that I love?"</p>

<p>"You must try to see us with your heart, my
dear child," said his mother.</p>

<p>Edward went to bed, somewhat dispirited, but
quickly falling asleep, was visited with such a pleasant
dream of the sunshine and of his dearest friends
that he felt the happier for it all the next day. And
we hope to find him still happy when we meet again.</p>

<p>THE END.</p>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</body>

<back>
<div rend="page-break-before: always">
<head>JUVENILE BOOKS</head>

<p>PUBLISHED BY</p>

<p>TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS.</p>

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With a large number of engravings. 16mo. 40 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Jonas's Stories. Related to Rollo and Lucy</hi>.<lb />
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By Jacob Abbott. With engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Jonas on a Farm in Winter</hi>.<lb />
By Jacob Abbott. With engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Jack Halliard. Voyages and adventures in the
Arctic Ocean</hi>.<lb />
 With engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Lambert Lilly's History of the New England
States</hi>.<lb />
 With numerous engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Lambert Lilly's History of the Middle States</hi>.
With numerous engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Lambert Lilly's History of the Southern States</hi>,
<hi rend="font-style: italic">Virginia</hi>, <hi rend="font-style: italic">North and South Carolina</hi>, <hi rend="font-style: italic">and Georgia</hi>.<lb />
With numerous engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Lambert Lilly's History of the Western States</hi>.<lb />
With numerous engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Lambert Lilly's Story of the American Revolution.</hi><lb />
With numerous engravings. 18mo. 38 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Little Stories for Little Folks</hi>.<lb />
Translated from the German. With twelve fine steel engravings. 16mo.
  60 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Mary Howitt's Birds and Flowers, and other</hi>
<hi rend="font-style: italic">Country Things</hi>.<lb />
 With engravings. 12mo. 50 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Mother's Lessons, for Little Girls and Boys</hi>.<lb />
By a Lady of Boston. With eight beautiful steel engravings. 16mo.
  50 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Olympic Games. A Gift for the Holidays</hi>.<lb />
By the Author of "Poetry for Home and School," &amp;c. 16mo. 50 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Parley's Short Stories for Long Nights</hi>.<lb />
With eight colored engravings, 16mo. 50 cents; uncolored engravings,
40 cents.</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Lights and Shadows of Domestic Life, and other Stories</hi>.<lb />
By the authors of "Rose and her Lamb."</p>

<p>TICKNOR, REED, AND FIELDS</p>

<p>HAVE PUBLISHED</p>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Greenwood Leaves</hi>.<lb />
A Collection of Stories and Letters, by Grace Greenwood.
Second edition. 1 vol. 12mo. $1.25; gilt $1.75.</p>

<quote rend="display">
<p>We suppose most of our readers are familiar with the name of
Grace Greenwood. For some half dozen of years she has been one
of the most acceptable contributors to our American monthlies, and
she possesses such liveliness and vivacity that it does one good to
read her productions. There is an ease and <hi rend="font-style: italic">grace</hi> about her, too,
that makes us feel acquainted with her, although we have never seen
her. The volume before us is filled with tales, sketches, letters,
and poems. We predict that every lady's library will contain this
volume.&#8212;BOSTON ATLAS.</p>
</quote>

<quote rend="display">
<p>The name of Grace Greenwood has now become a household word in the
popular literature of our country and our day. Of the intellectual woman
we are not called to say much, as her writings speak for themselves, and
they have spoken widely. They are eminently characteristic; they are
strictly national; they are likewise decisively individual. All true
individuality is honestly social; and also, in Miss Clarke's writings,
nothing is sectional, and nothing sectarian. There is much in them that
is subjective, much that is drawn from personal experience, but nothing
that is merely vain or selfish. A genuine human being, she is at the
same time a genuine American girl. And the spirit of her country finds
in her utterance a voice that must stir an earnest life in the brothers
and sisters of her nation. She is one of the spiritual products of the
soil, which has of late given evidence of spiritual fertility; and she
promises not to be the least healthy, as she is not the least choice
among them; she is only putting out her spring buds; if no untimely
frost shall nip them, when the summer suns are warm they will be
splendid blossoms, and long before autumn begins to dim the sky with its
mellow shootings they will be luxuriant fruit.&#8212;HENRY GILES.</p>
</quote>

<p><hi rend="font-style: italic">Alderbrook</hi>.<lb />
<hi rend="font-style: italic">A Collection of Fanny Forester's Village Sketches, Poems,
&amp;c</hi>. With a fine Mezzotinto Portrait of the Author,
engraved by Sartain. Ninth edition, enlarged.</p>

<p>2 vols. 12mo, $1.75; gilt $2.50; gilt extra $3.00.
The same in 1 vol. $1.62; gilt $2.25; gilt extra $2.75.</p>

<quote rend="display">
<p>Who has not heard of Fanny Forester,&#8212;'charming Fanny Forester,'
as she is deservedly called? Her sketches have been more
generally read and admired than those of almost any other periodical
writer of our day. There is a freshness, grace, sprightliness,
purity, and actualness about them, which charms and invigorates;
and we are glad to find them collected and published in a form
both elegant and convenient. Miss Chubbuck, it will be remembered,
was married a few months ago to the Rev. Dr. Judson, and
is now on her way, with that devoted missionary, to the scene of
his former labors. The dedicatory preface of these volumes, to
her husband, is one of the most graceful and touching we have
ever seen. A beautifully engraved portrait of the lady, by Sartain,
is prefixed to the first volume. This collection will make a
very acceptable and suitable present in the approaching Holidays.&#8212;SALEM
REGISTER.</p>
</quote>

<quote rend="display">
<p>This is one of those charming books which well deserves a place
in every family library, and which has already won a place in thousands
of hearts. The Sketches comprised in these beautiful volumes
are so full of grace and tenderness, so pure in their style and
so elevated in their tone, that none can read them without delight
and profit. We hazard little in saying that the touching story of
"Grace Linden," which properly leads the collection, is scarcely
surpassed in beauty by any thing in the works of Maria Edgeworth,
or Mary Russell Mitford. There are a great many other
Sketches, in the volumes, that deserve special praise; but we will
not deal in particulars when all are so admirable.</p>

<p>The authoress of "Alderbrook" is now a self-denying, zealous
missionary of the Cross, in Asia, and, as Mrs. Judson, has written
many very charming things. She is best known, however, under
her <hi rend="font-style: italic">nomme de plume</hi>; and however honored may be the revered
name she now bears, that of Fanny Forester will be cherished
with pride and pleasure by her friends and readers.&#8212;So. LIT.
GAZETTE.</p>
</quote>
</div>

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